


A Game of Dragons

by Zi_Night



Series: A Tale of Surviving [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But All Relavant Characters Will Show Up, Canon-Typical Violence, Dorne-centric, Gen, Jon joins the Night's Watch, Only POV Characters are Tagged, POV Alternating, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Survivor Guilt, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2020-06-26 14:36:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 49
Words: 134,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19770277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zi_Night/pseuds/Zi_Night
Summary: After fleeing to Essos to escape the threat of Robert Baratheon, Jaime and Rhaenys head to Dorne with the knowledge that Robert's reign is coming to an end. After being spared at the Tower of Joy, Arthur Dayne watches over his prince's son in the North, unaware of how things are going to change. A rewrite of Game of Thrones.Part of the A Tale of Surviving series. Can be read without reading the other parts of the series, but the other parts are prequels to this and give some background information. Updated on Thursdays.





	1. Arthur

**Author's Note:**

> First some housekeeping.  
> This fic will (roughly) follow the show's timeline and I will be keeping some of their story decisions. I will, roughly, be keeping their wildlings decisions (because GRRM is a little too slow for me) and I will be keeping the removal of Lady Stoneheart (I have some guesses as to what GRRM is trying to do with her but I don't think I can add her into this).  
> That being said I will be adding in a lot of story characters and substituting some story arcs back in. Dorne will be significantly different from the Dorne in the show (but it will have some book resemblance) and Sansa will have her story arc (cuz it's significantly better).  
> There will also be some handwaving in the story elements that originally involve Jaime, so that things follow, roughly, the same trend. In this story he isn't in Westeros to have children with Cersei, but Lancel will be aged up to take that place. This is the only change I've made and haven't addressed in story, but if I've forgotten anything else I'll be sure to tell you.  
> Thanks so much for reading and I hope y'all like it. Let me know if there are any glaring errors.

It was on days like this one where he felt like he had forgotten what it was like to be hot. It wasn’t even snowing, but the air was still crisp and cool from an earlier snow. The North knew snow like Dorne knew the sun and, even in the heated halls of Winterfell, it was never hot in the North. Not in the way he was used to. When he was young he would complain about the Dornish heat. Somedays he would sit in his room naked and still wish he could strip himself of his skin for a chance at relief. He had never thought he would grow to miss it, but here he was wrapped in armor and furs and still much too cold. Arthur hadn’t seen Dorne in a decade and a half and a large part of him missed being so hot he sweltered even when barely dressed.

For as much as he hated the cold, he had to admit that there was a certain type of beauty to it. The wolfswood was full of large green trees that sat dusted with snow. The daylight that filtered through the canopy made the snow and ice dazzle like precious crystals. The blanket spread over the ground was littered with the tracks of different wildlife; the delicate prints of rabbits, the springy steps of foxes, the much too similar tracks of boar and deer, and now a host of horseshoe imprints. A breeze sent a flurry of leaves into the air and forced a shiver down his spine.

None of his traveling companions seemed even slightly bothered by the cold. He was willing to bet that most of them didn’t even consider this to be cold. The boys he was tasked with watching over seemed more than comfortable. Robb rode regally and confidently, Jon looked as somber as he usually did but not look uncomfortable, and Bran was fidgeting and bouncing in his saddle. Bran appeared to be struggling with an anxious sort of excitement. He doesn’t know how he feels about the boy being excited about seeing his father deliver justice, but he remembers what it was like to be a boy and wanting to be included with the adults.

He had never liked executions. It never sat right with him to kill an unarmed man, regardless of their crimes. After word had spread of his fight with the Smiling Knight, people had talked about how honorable the Sword of the Morning was for letting his opponent rearm himself. Lord Commander Hightower had scolded him for letting his honor make him overconfident and reckless, but the reality was that neither of those things had anything to do with why he let the Smiling Knight claim another sword during their fight. The true reason was because he wouldn’t have been able to kill the man if he hadn’t been an active threat to him or others. He liked fighting because of the skill and strength necessary to be good at it, not because of the blood it shed.

So, when Ned asks the deserter for his last words, he shifts his focus from the makeshift execution block towards Ned’s sons. He sees Robb standing stoically and at attention. He watches Jon whisper something to Bran before copying his brother’s posture. Bran doesn’t look away as his father takes the deserter’s head and he can see the excitement drain out of the boy’s body. He frowns at Theon’s disrespect, when the young man laughs and kicks the severed head. When Theon had first arrived, he had felt cruel for disliking young Theon Greyjoy. He still felt cruel, but it was moments like these where he felt justified for his dislike of the boy. Though old enough to be a man, Theon acted too much like a boy for him to consider him an adult.

The somberness of the execution doesn’t stick with the children long. For a moment, the boys are serious as Bran processes his first execution, but then the moment is gone and Robb and Jon are racing ahead of the party. He doesn’t fault the boys; they are young, carefree, and untouched by death. Still he stays back to keep an eye on Bran. The older boys aren’t likely to get in much trouble and, if they do, they are equipped to protect themselves. Even when Jon begins shouting for his father, it’s not with enough panic to demand urgency.

He keeps pace with Bran as they stray off the path. He takes long strides to make sure the boy is in arms reach, after the boy dismounts and races towards his brothers. He hears, more than sees, that the boys have found direwolf pups and watches as Jon settles a pup in Bran’s arms. He wonders if Jon had made the right choice, considering Bran already looks half in love with the animal.

Ned steps around him as he goes to investigate the dead direwolf. A cold sense of dread settles over everyone present when Ned pulls an antler out of the direwolf’s throat. He had never been a particularly superstitious man, but seeing the symbol of House Stark gored by the symbol of House Baratheon feels like too much of an omen. Ned talks away the silence, but the dread sits still and heavy in his stomach. The part of him that knows too much about magic and prophecy struggles against his hope that this means nothing.

Robb insists on keeping the wolves, even as everyone around him threatens to kill them. Bran turns to his father with large, watery eyes, but it is Jon’s words that move Lord Stark. He points out that there is a wolf for each of Ned’s children and when Ned asks if Jon wants one Jon remarks that he isn’t a Stark. _The boy’s not wrong._

He ends up riding back with both a little black and a little grey pup curled against him. Bran has his chosen wolf curled against his chest, Robb carefully cradles his grey pup, and Jory carries another grey pup. Ned seems amused when Jon rides back and returns with a white pup. The little ball of fur is small and he wonders how Jon noticed it when all of them standing near it didn’t. Theon makes an unkind joke about the albino direwolf dying, but Jon gives the boy cold words and an even colder glare.

The rest of the ride back to Winterfell is uneventful. The boys are too preoccupied with their wolves to race forward and nothing darts out of the woods to bother them. There is no pomp and circumstance when they enter the castle, but, as though they could sense that something had happened in the wood, the rest of Ned’s children are waiting for them in the yard. Ned is the first to dismount and he can see him whispering to his children. Robb and Jon confidently come off their steeds, but Bran gets assistance from a nearby guard. Arthur carefully cradles his cargo with one arm and dismounts.

The boys purposely approach their family, but he and Jory wait until Ned beckons them over to approach. Little Arya seems to be buzzing with energy as she shifts from foot to foot, Sansa looks reserved but curious, and Rickon seems unsure and nervous. Sansa approaches Jory and takes the pup from his arms. She coos at the pup the same way he has heard women coo at babies. Arya marches up to him and looks over the wolves. She plucks the grey pup from his arms. “Her name is Nymeria,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. They share a smile before she steps back with her pup. That left the little black pup for Rickon. He carefully deposits the wolf into Rickon’s arms. The boy looks nervous over his charge, but warms up to it slightly when the pup leans forward to lick at his chin.

Ned lectures his children on what they must do to take care of their pups. He tells them that if they want to keep them they will have to watch over and train them themselves. He warns that the wolves may still die even after all their love and affection. The children nod solemnly and assure their father that they will do their best. Ned gives them permission to leave and the children scatter: Arya races away with her pup clutched to her chest, Robb leads Rickon away with a hand on his shoulder, Sansa walks away while cooing to her wolf, Bran trots away contently, and Jon leaves with his white pup cupped in his hands, looking at the beast as though he doesn’t believe it’s there.

Once all the children are gone, Ned turns to look at them. He, Farlen, and Jory remain behind him. “I told the children that no one was going to help them, but you are allowed to help Rickon. Training a normal dog would be difficult at that age, much less a direwolf. The wolf is still his responsibility, so make sure that you only help when the boy needs it.”

They chorus acknowledgements before going on their way. Farlen moves towards the kennels, Jory walks towards the other men gathered in the courtyard, and he heads in the direction he saw Robb and Rickon move to. He finds the boys near the kitchens, with rags soaked in goat’s milk. Rickon still seems nervous around the pup, but he’s sure it’s only a matter of time before the boy warms up to the wolf. Robb carefully explains the Rickon the kind of care his wolf will need and the younger boy pays avid attention to the instruction.

He spends the rest of his day following Rickon around. Nothing particularly eventful happens. The boy understands that the pup is little and not particularly active. Rickon settles himself onto a rug and lays with his pup for most of the day. He does leave to get the boy supplies when the pup whimpers, but the boy feeds the wolf all on his own. They head to the dining hall for dinner and all the Stark children can be seen with their wolves. Lady Stark doesn’t seem very pleased with the wolves, but she doesn’t say anything about it, at least not here. After watching over Rickon for a while longer he bathes and heads to bed.

When he wakes up, the morning is much more agitated than he thought it would be. There is a flurry of activity as Jory gathers men and supplies for some event. He considers asking, but, before he has the chance, a servant approaches and tells him Ned wants him in his solar. He passed by people racing around preparing things. People cleaning the yard and halls, moving supplies, and bringing out ornamental objects. He arrives to Ned’s solar just as Maester Luwin is leaving it. The old man is in too much of a hurry to properly great him, he just bobs his head and scuttles off.

When he walks into the solar, Ned is distractedly looking over papers. The man has a slightly harried look to him. It speaks to the urgency of the lord’s affairs when he notices the remnants of food on the desk. He spies a mostly torn chunk of bread, the scattered shells of some eggs, and some liquid left to sit on a plate. Ned was a man who liked to eat with his men, it made it easier to know them, or so he claimed. He only ate alone when he felt it was necessary to.

Ned waved for him to sit down, but didn’t say anything to him. While Ned worked, he took a moment to survey the room. The room hadn’t changed much since he had first seen it; the tapestries and wall hanging were the same, the furniture arrangement was the same, and the general feel of the room was the same, rich and cozy. Some of the furs had been changed, but only when they were musty and needed to be replaced, and the same went for the curtains and rugs. A small fire shimmered in the fireplace to help keep the room warm and the curtains were drawn back to let natural light in.

He turned his attention back towards Ned when the man let out a deep sigh. The lord ran his fingers through his hair and tilted his head up to look at him. “King Robert is coming to Winterfell.” He feels his lip twitch as he repressed a snarl. The long-buried Arthur Dayne stirred within him, demanding combat. Logically, he had come to terms with what Robert Baratheon had done and why he had done it, but a feral, wounded part of him still wanted to see the man dead. “He will also be coming with his wife and children and all the guard that entails. While they’re here you aren’t in charge of watching over the children and are expected to avoid anyone who could recognize you, to the best of your ability.”

“I understand.”

Ned looked him over. He had never been open about his dislike for the king, but Ned knew him well enough to know anyways. There was a certainty that he wouldn’t do anything to the king when he was nowhere near the king, but it was only natural for that certainty to be called into question when he would have an opportunity. He wouldn’t do anything, revealing himself would not only put himself and the prince in danger, but it also had the potential to put Ned and his family in danger. House Stark had treated him well and he wasn’t going to repay that kindness with treason.

Eventually, Ned nods at him. He can’t help but wonder if Ned stares men down because he can actually read them or if he’s hoping the intensity of his stare will break the man into telling him what he wants. “Once they arrive I will be putting you on general guard duty. I would recommend fully covering yourself. It will be cold.”

 _Coverings for the cold or coverings for stranger’s eyes?_ “I will be sure to keep that in mind. If I may ask, why are they coming to Winterfell?”

He sees a tightness gather around Ned’s eyes. The lord’s eyes dart down to look at the papers in front of him. “Jon Arryn has passed.” He never knew the man, but he was aware that both Stark and Baratheon had been his wards. He was also aware that he had been the King Robert’s Hand.

“He’s coming for you.”

His statement earned him a hard stare. “Aye.”

He wanted to ask if Ned would accept. A number of Starks had been lost to the south and Ned had intensely mourned each of those deaths. But Robert was, not only his friend but also, his king and kings weren’t known for taking no lightly. He doubted Ned wanted the position but still might say yes out of a sense of obligation. Both decisions were damned and he decided he didn’t want to know. “How long will it take for him to reach Winterfell?”

“About a month and a little bit more.”

He couldn’t decide if he thought that too long or too short. The sooner Robert arrived the sooner he would leave. But once Robert arrived, Ned would be forced to make a difficult decision and he would be forced to play his part more seriously than before. Pretending to be Vorian was easy when no one here knew Arthur, but there was a chance that someone coming might know him. If Selmy was among them, he would have to, subtly, make sure they were never in the same room long. He had once won a joust in Lannisport and, if he wasn’t careful, that could be enough to give him away to some Lannister. “I’ll be sure to take the necessary precautions.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

He stood up. “With your leave.” At Ned’s nod, he made his way out of the solar. The warmth of the halls pressed down on him and each passageway felt cramped and small. He kept his stride long and did everything he could to keep it from looking like he was running. Something stirred under his skin. Was it the part of him that called for Robert’s blood, a part of him long tired of his farce, or a part of him that recognized danger on the horizon?

The air was cool against his faces once he found his way outside. The glare of the sun off the snow blinded him for a moment. Once his eyes cleared he could see that Jory and his assembled band were on the cusp of leaving. They were off to escort the king to Winterfell. He heard a hollow grumble come from his stomach and he remember that he had not yet broken his fast.

He picked his way through the yard. The chatter of the yard calmed him. Grooms and stable hands were wrapping up their assignment, servants bustled through as they went through their morning duties, he heard laughter from some guard up on the wall, and the smithy provided a steady clang of noise. But all that noise wasn’t enough to hide a crunching sound that came from under his boot.

He looked down and spied a red leaf, the kind that was only seen atop a weirwood tree. In the north those trees were sacred to the old gods, though some claimed the trees were the old gods. The old gods had no septas or septons to speak of their will. On a whim, he had asked Ned how worshipers could know if the old gods were pleased or displeased with them, and Ned had told him that the old gods spoke through the nature around them. He stared down at the leaf, bright as blood against the snow, and remembered the dead direwolf. Had she been a sign from the old gods? There was no doubt that King Robert brought danger with him, the question was for who?


	2. Jaime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've just realized what kind of beast fic this will be because I've reached like 20,000 words and still haven't left the first couple of episodes/the first couple of chapters. I've also given into temptation and started writing a 'Robert loses the Rebellion' fic, so there is that. Wish me luck, and I hope y'all like it.

Today, he and Rhaenys were pacing the docks to see if there were any boats heading to or passing by Dorne. He had been unlucky the past couple of times he had gone searching. Most of the ships he had spoken to didn’t seem to be heading to Dorne or the Reach. He had found a ship that was heading to Oldtown but had refused to let a woman onboard and another time he had found a ship that claimed to be heading for the stormlands, but he had spent enough time around ports to recognize that the ship wasn’t equipped for their supposed voyage. So now they were trying to see if having Rhaenys and Balerion with him helped their odds.

Next to him, Rhaenys was cradling Balerion like a baby. It was his punishment after swallowing down some sardines he had stolen from a merchant. He was sure the cat was staring at him, begging for rescue, but he was focused on the docked ships. His preference was a swan ship. The Summer Islanders weren’t superstitious about having women on ships, he found them to be pleasant sailors, and their ships were generally the safest. He scanned the area looking for either the distinctive dark skin of the Summer Islanders or the white sails common on swan ships.

He’s found harbors to be lively, vibrant places and this harbor was no exception. Because Myr was a major city, there was a wide variety of docked ships. There were fishing boats, cogs, galleys, and more sitting side by side in the water. There was a myriad of visible colors from dyed sails, painted hulls, and polished figureheads. Woman, men, and animals could be seen jutting from the bow of several ships; some were brand new with no color aside from the polished grain of the wood, others painted and well cared for, and a few were broken and chipped but proud. So many ships and each one uniquely different from the ones alongside it.

The people who raced around the docks were also incredibly varied. There were men from all corners of Essos, the Summer Isles, and Westeros. Some were slaves, made obvious by the collars they wore, and others were free men, though whether they were born free or made free was hard to know. The space was filled with the chatter of all the different languages they brought. The noise reminded him of the monkeys in the Summer Isles. Their chatter had a recognizable pattern but the actual words being spoken were beyond him.

Eventually, he does find a swan ship, but he doesn’t identify it by its sails or its crew. He finds it by catching sight of its avian figurehead. It’s a large black bird with a long, hooked bill. He points out the ship to Rhaenys and nudges her towards it. As they near he sees that the ship is named _Lover’s Remembrance_ , a merchant ship from the looks of it. He’s sure the ship had just arrived in the city because it wasn’t there the last time he was here.

It’s easy to flag down someone to talk to, the crew is in the middle of unloading some of their cargo and buzzing all around the ship. When he asks to speak to the captain, the man keeping inventory of the stock coming off the ship waves them over. The man is dark skinned and broad shouldered. His hair sits in tight ringlets around his face and adds an extra inch or two to the man’s, already tall, height. The man is wearing common sailor clothes, instead of a traditional feather cloak, but it could just be because he was helping unload the ship.

“Are you the captain?” he asked in the Common Tongue.

“I am. What are you looking for?” The captain responds in the Common Tongue. The man’s Common was clear and understandable, even though his homeland’s accent sat heavy in his words.

“We are looking for passage. Where are you and your crew heading?”

The captain reveals straight, perfect, pearl-white teeth as he grins. “We are headed for your Sunset Kingdom. South around the Arm and as far north as Lannisport, if Oldtown happens to be closefisted.”

“We would only need passage for as far as Dorne.”

“Passage for you, the cat, and your…”

“Daughter.”

The captain barks out a laugh. “Daughter? The girl must be all her mother and none of you.” The man calms down and thinks for a moment. “It can be done.”

They then discuss the price of passage. They don’t have to talk for long, they still have more than enough money after selling their home and he isn’t really in the mood for trying to haggle down a reasonable price. It ends with the captain smacking him on the back and saying, “For that price you and your girl can share the captain’s quarters. Let it not be said that Xhoru was a discourteous man.”

Rhaenys gives the man a polite half bow. “We thank you for your hospitality.”

“Let’s hope your cat brings us luck to reward my hospitality. We leave in four days’ time, bring your things tomorrow or the day after and we’ll make sure you are well settled.”

\---

They return with their things two days later. There is still a sense of oddness to being able to fit all their belongings into two trunks. When he had been young, travel had always been an event; with baggage trains, guards, servants, horses, and carriages. They would be noticed where ever they went, but now, no one paid them any mind. To the people around them they were no one of interest.

Captain Xhoru was waiting for them once they reached the ship. The man was still dressed like a common sailor instead of something more befitting of his station. The captain walked down the gangplank, lifted one of the trunks out of his hands, then gestured with it and walked back up the gangplank. The crew mostly ignored them as they stepped on deck, two or three of them glanced their way but continued with what they were doing. He walked them to the back of the ship, towards the visible cabin.

“This is where you will be staying,” Xhoru said as he nudged the door open with his hip. Xhoru let Jaime and Rhaenys step in before following in after. Balerion wasted no time and jumped off Rhaenys’s shoulders to explore the room.

The captain’s quarters were surprisingly humble. The only signs of opulence were the featherbed and the locked, glass-front cabinet filled with colored glass bottles, he would bet money on each bottle containing some type of expensive alcohol. Aside from that the room was rather plain. The walls were bare wood, the floors were uncovered, there was a desk with books and map tubes, small windows with undyed wool curtains, a handful of nondescript cabinets, and a plain table set that looked like it was bolted to the floor. Rhaenys plucked Balerion off the desk when he seemed too interested in the books there. She turned to the captain, “Where will you be staying?”

“I’ve been a sailor all my life. Going back to the bunks is no bother to me.” Xhoru set the trunk on the table and said, “We can tether these to the wall, or if you would like them somewhere more secure, we can lock them up.”

“The one you have can be locked up,” it was the opulent appearing chest, full of their fancier clothes, jewelry, and other expensive, but worthless to them, items. “This one should be tethered since it has our clothing and other general things,” and under the false bottom it had a Valyrian sword, a bow and quiver, and a black dragon egg. Their hope was that anyone who looked into that trunk would consider it too insignificant to want to steal it.

Xhoru nodded to a space against the wall and moved toward a set of cabinets. He found a set of hooks and had settled the trunk between them when Xhoru came back with a length of rope. The opulent chest was placed behind a set of double doors and a lock. There was an abhorrent amount of jangling when Xhoru pulled out an absurdly full key ring. He couldn’t help but ask, “Do you really have that many locks on board?”

The captain shot him a grin. “Half of these are things I found lying around, but any thief who gets their hands on it will think each and every one is important. I won’t make it easy on any one who steals from me.” After putting his key ring away, Xhoru gestured to the bed. “The thing is big enough for the both of you but I can find you a bunk or a hammock if you’d like.”

He and Rhaenys shared a look, before she shrugged and dumped Balerion on the bed. “We’ll be alright. I wouldn’t want to displace anyone else.” He also preferred sleeping on comfortable beds.

Xhoru nodded. “We will be leaving at sun up tomorrow. If you have any business left in Myr I would suggest wrapping it up before sun down. If you need anything I will be around the port or you may ask my crew. I shall leave you to get settled.” And with that, the man walked out of the cabin.

He decided to closer survey the room while Rhaenys flopped across the bed. He was looking over the books on the desk, all of which seemed to be inventories and things of the like, when he heard Balerion start to purr. He turns to see the cat rubbing himself against Rhaenys’s palm and Rhaenys turning to look at him. “Have you ever been to Dorne?”

“No. My father wasn’t one for unnecessary traveling and he had no business in Dorne. My times as a squire took me east, not south, and I didn’t travel at all as a Kingsguard.”

“What do you think it’s like?”

“Hot?” Rhaenys looked very unimpressed by his suggestion. “I don’t remember much about Dorne, so I guess we won’t know until we get there.”

“I guess we won’t.”

\---

After they left port, Xhoru had informed them that reaching Planky Town would take about a month and a half, assuming the winds were with them. While he had gotten used to traveling by ship, he still found sea travel to be rather boring. Every day was roughly the same. He would wake up, eat with Rhaenys, sit in the mess hall, talk to some of the crew who spoke common, go above deck, watch the ocean, do some activity with Rhaenys, until it was time to go to bed where he would lay back to back with Rhaenys until the ocean rocked them to sleep. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly desperate, he would help around the ship and, when he was feeling desperately bored, he would read some of the books Rhaenys had brought with them.

Their days were spent surrounded by a bubble of blue and any unaccounted deviation from the blue was met with suspicion. Even though they only saw the same people every day they didn’t want to see anyone new, either in their ship or on the horizon. He could see how being on a ship could be isolating, but there was also a comfort to being this insulated. The people here were pleasant, the weather was nice, and he always enjoyed being with Rhaenys. He soon realized that this would be the last time it would just be him and Rhaenys. They planned on heading to Sunspear as soon as possible and then other people would know. No matter what happened in Dorne, they would be people of import again.

The thought made him overbearing. Rhaenys never called him out on it, but he was sure she had noticed. He kept coming up with increasingly more ridiculous excuses to spend time with her. At first it had been because few people on the ship spoke common and the ones who did were usually busy. Later it had been because he was still paranoid about her safety and preferred having her in his sight. That one had earned him a judgmental look, but she still hung around him. The latest excuse had been one he had hastily come up with, after she questioned him about why he kept following her around. He had said that she was growing so fast and he wanted to remember what she looked like at this age. He had grimaced after the words left his mouth and even the ever polite Rhaenys couldn’t help but laugh in his face. Still, she hadn’t questioned the obvious lie and good-naturedly invited him to join in what she was planning on doing.

He ate with her, but after that he was too embarrassed to join her. She was planning to spend her day with the archers and he didn’t find archery particularly interesting anyway. Instead he lazed in their room. Balerion seemed to take pity on him and also stuck around in the cabin. He spent the afternoon trailing a piece of fluff attached to a string across the floor and trying to see how high Balerion would jump to try and catch it. Eventually, he decided that he would just go to sleep early. He curled into his side of the bed and let the waves sooth him to sleep.

He woke up startled. He turned to lay on his back and Balerion took the opportunity to swat him in the face. The room was dark and it took him much too long to realize Rhaenys wasn’t in the room. If she had been he would have rolled over on top of her. Balerion tried to take another swipe at his head, so he seized the cat and rose out of bed.

The night crew was not as lively as the day crew. Where the day crew would sing, tell bawdy jokes, and other spirited activities; the night crew was solemn and most of their talking was for when it was necessary. Xhoru had told him that he had purposely sought out people willing to work the night shift, instead of forcing his crew to do so. He had claimed that men were not horses, and that it was easier to find people suited for the job than it was to mold a person to the job. He ponders if the quiet was what called them to the job or if their quietness helped them be better suited for it.

Rhaenys was easy to find once he stepped out of the cabin. She stood against the rail of the ship, gazing at the stars. For a moment, he considered leaving her alone, he had pestered her a lot during their couple of weeks at sea and he considered that maybe she wanted some time alone, but then Balerion mrowed from his spot, tucked into the crook of his arm, and Rhaenys turned to see them. She waved them over, before turning back to look at the stars.

As he stepped up, she said, “I was looking for Ser Arthur.” When she was younger, and the wounds of loss had still been fresh, she had been terribly sad. Out of a desperate need to try and make her happy, he had told her that all the people she had lost were still with her. When she had asked him how, he had impulsively told her that they were in the world around her. The first person he could make a connection for had been Elia. He thought about her and all the things related to her, eventually he thought of the Martell coat of arms and had said that Elia was with her through the sun and the heat it radiated. Rhaegar became the sound of music, Prince Lewyn became the sound of laughter, Aegon became all small things she could cradle in the palm of her hand, Queen Rhaella became quiet breezes, and Ser Arthur became the stars in the sky.

“Did you find him?”

She raised her arm and pointed towards the horizon. From where they were standing, it looked like her finger was resting on the pommel of the Sword of the Morning constellation. He still remembered how, when he had first told her about it, she had innocently exclaimed about Ser Arthur having a constellation named after him. She lowered her arm and they stood in silence watching the stars.

Her voice is soft. A soft thing he might have missed if it weren’t for the quiet. “I’m nervous too, you know.”

He wants to lie, to lean into his cocksure past and pretend everything is fine. “There is so much we don’t know.”

“There is, but I had a dream.”

“About what?”

“One where I’m sitting in a patch of tall grass, surrounded by a ring of red mountains. The sun is against my back and I’m leaning against a golden lion while covered in snakes. Behind us something blots out the sun, but I’m not afraid. Instead I feel warm and safe.”

“The red mountains are obviously Dorne. Your uncle was the Red Viper, but he is only one snake, not many. I have no guesses for the grass. Or the shadow.”

“You missed the most important part.”

“The most important part?”

“I feel safe. And you are by my side.”

“That was a given. I will always be with you.”

She laughs and then leans against his side. He wraps his arm around her and begins to rub her arm. “No matter what happens in Dorne, you will be there with me.”

“Do you want some time alone?”

“No. If it’s okay with you I would like to stay here and watch the stars with you.”

He nods before pressing his head against hers. Rhaenys reaches over to pull Balerion out from under his arm. She cradles the cat like a baby against her chest. The only noise is the sound of moving water and the general noise of the night crew working. A cool, salty breeze drifts by and pulls at their clothing. At this time of night, the sky is a pitch-black backdrop littered with bright, glowing lights. There is a streak of color duster with stars, constellations that he knows and some he doesn’t, isolated stars, and the moon, sitting heavy and full. The ocean reflects the sky, rippled and odd, but just as bright. It feels like the sky has folded over to cocoon them in its watchful embrace.

They stand there watching the sky. Watch as the stars begin to flicker out one by one. As the moon moves across its path. As the darkness of the sky begins to brighten into oranges and reds. As the sun begins to shyly peek over the horizon. It isn’t until then that they go inside and go to bed.


	3. Arthur

He was trying to wrangle Rickon and Shaggydog when the king arrived. The direwolves weren’t particularly big. They were tall enough for the tips of their ears to brush against the bottom of his knee, but there was no ignoring how quickly they had grown, bigger than all of Farlen’s hounds around the same age. Even though they were small, they were still direwolves and he was one of the few confident in the children’s training to engage the wolves by himself. Shaggydog, in particular, was known for liking to roughhouse and for being as impulsive as Rickon, but kind words and assertive handling was usually enough to get the wolf to cooperate.

Getting the two into the courtyard took some persuading, but they got there quickly enough. After brushing Rickon down, in the hopes of making him look vaguely presentable, he sent the boy off with his family before going with Shaggydog to stand with the direwolves. He was to watch over them to make sure nothing rash happened.

The wolves still made Winterfell’s horses nervous, so they didn’t want to risk letting the wolves roam free and spooking the king’s horses or the king’s men. When he and Shaggydog approach the other wolves, Shaggydog immediately races off the try and tussle with Grey Wind. He watches Grey Wind humor Shaggydog, before settling back down.

It’s interesting seeing how much each direwolf reflects their owner. Grey Wind is confident and assertive, Lady is regal and well-mannered, Nymeria is loyal and friendly, Bran’s still unnamed wolf is curious and persistent, Shaggydog is insistent and playful, and Ghost is quiet and watchful. The direwolves all sit attentive as the guests arrive. Even though Ghost is among their ranks, it doesn’t escape his notice how the wolf blends into the snow, as though he wasn’t even there.

Like the wolves, he stands attentive as everyone arrives. Winterfell’s people stand in the courtyard waiting for the king’s arrival. Ned stands surrounded by his family at the front of the crowd. He sees Lady Stark deliver one last warning to her children before serenely looking forward. All the children, minus Jon, stand at attention. Rickon fidgets slightly, but his siblings press in to make sure he stays still.

He sees the gold banners first. It feels wrong to know that this is the first time he has seen the battle standard. He should have seen it during the rebellion, but he had never seen the field of that battle. He had also missed seeing the standard during the Greyjoy Rebellion, but that didn’t bother him as much. Ned had insisted on him staying in Winterfell for that rebellion and Robert had not come north. He had no issue not fighting for Robert and, regardless, the kingdom had done fine without him.

After the king’s banner, comes the queen’s banner, and then their children’s split banner. The front guard pours in and parts in preparation for the king. The guard is polished and coordinated, not a man falls behind and everyone moves smoothly to where they should be. It feels like the courtyard is holding its breath as it waits for the king.

When he does catch sight of the king, he knows it’s Robert mostly because of the circumstances around the man and not because he recognizes him. Arthur had seen Robert at many tourneys and the man he remembered had been handsome and robust. A boisterous man who people flocked to because his charisma oozed into the space around him. The man who appears wearing a crown and flanked by Kingsguard is boisterous, no doubt, but that is where the similarities end. King Robert was a man bordering on rotund, with tired looking eyes, and the red face of a man who drank too much. Baratheon had gone from looking like a man women lusted over, to looking like a man women would avoid like a sickness. 

As Robert greeted Ned, he shifted his focus towards the Kingsguard. If Ser Barristan had come to Winterfell he would have to be very careful. They had been sworn brothers and he had no doubt the man would recognize him at once. But as he watches the Kingsguard dismount neither man seems familiar to him. He briefly wonders if they face the same moral struggles the Kingsguard before them struggled.

He shifts his focus to the men arriving behind them. A man in gold armor removes his helm and he is suddenly thrust into the past. For a moment, he sees hair that shines like gold in the sun and eyes the color of emeralds. But then the nostalgia passes and he sees that the hair is closer to wheat than gold and that the green is more muddied than bright.

He quickly understands why they call this man the Imposter Lion. Lancel Lannister looks like someone took Jaime Lannister and drained all the intrigue out of him. Aside from the coloring differences, there was something about the man that he found lacking. The Jaime he remembered was full of an easy sort of grace and an expressive emotionality. This man’s posture looked forced and his confidence reads as fake. He had heard men whisper about how this man was trying to fill the hole Jaime’s disappearance had left and instantly dislikes him for it.

Behind them rides a boy who he assumes is the eldest prince. The boy has the Lannister look and is even dressed in Lannister colors. There is a haughtiness to the boy that he mislikes. He had met many handsome and powerful men who were cruel because they could be and the prince strikes him as one of them. A tall and intimidating man rides alongside him. The Hound is broad-shouldered, lined with muscle, and his burns scars speak of a man who understands pain. When he was young, his maester had told him that fear had the power to humble a man, but, with a sworn shield like that, he feels like the prince had experienced few occasions to be humbled.

He spots the queen walking in with her children, an elegant little girl and a plump little boy. Arthur wonders if that’s what Elia would have looked like with her children. He quickly decides that it isn’t. Elia would have held both her children’s hands, the princess had loved her children and had no issue showing her affection for them. He has a harder time trying to decide if Rhaenys and Aegon would have matched Myrcella and Tommen. The last time he had seen Rhaenys she had been two years old and more interested in chasing her new kitten than looking sophisticated, but maybe she would have learned the importance of doing what was expected her by the time she was Myrcella’s age. When he had last seen Aegon the boy had been a baby, he doesn’t think Aegon would have plumped up like the little prince, but that guess has more to do with what he knew about the boy’s family than the boy. It still tears at his heart that they hadn’t lived long enough for him to properly know.

The queen looks out of place in Winterfell. Dressed in jewels and expensive, impractical fabrics, she stands out among the castle’s simplicity. He doesn’t know much about Cersei, Jaime had never really talked about her. Most of what he knew about the woman came from Rhaegar. Like so many others, Cersei had been infatuated with the prince and her position as the Hand’s daughter allowed her to be near him. Rhaegar hadn’t found her to be all that interesting, but most twelve-year-old girls weren’t interesting to seventeen-year-old boys. _And yet, twenty-two-year-old Rhaegar had found fourteen-year-old Lyanna interesting._

He shakes off the bitter thought and focuses on the appearance of a Lannister he has heard quite a bit about. While Jaime had said little about his sister, he had made up for it when he spoke about his brother. Jaime would speak frequently and passionately about his little brother and was curt with anyone who dared speak ill of the boy in front of him. While most of the kingdom had seen Tyrion’s birth as the gods’ punishment on Lord Tywin, Jaime had only seen him as a little brother to be loved. Jaime had aggressively loved his brother and saw no shame in letting other people know it.

Once the pomp and circumstance of the king’s arrival dies down, he sees Ned walk Robert towards the crypts. There’s no doubt that the men are going down to see Lyanna. He can’t help but wonder if Ned knows about Lyanna’s distaste for Robert. About how she though Robert’s infatuation with her would pass and then she would just be another girl in Robert’s long list of conquests. During their time in the tower, Lyanna had told him that she thought Robert ‘loved’ her because she was attractive and not interested in him. That Robert was, likely, so used to getting his way that he savored the challenge she offered. He couldn’t help but wonder if this is why Robert is going down into the crypts. If she still sticks in his memory because she was the one he wanted but never got to have.

Now that they are free to go, the children rush him and the wolves. Shaggydog breaks rank and runs up to meet Rickon, but the rest of them sit patiently and wait for their owners to arrive. The king’s guard cast the direwolves wary looks, but there is nothing they can do about them so they, cautiously, go about their business. Jon appears from somewhere behind him, having been hidden away for the arrival, and he watches as Ghost peels himself out of the snow to bite at Jon’s arm. The first time he had seen the wolf do that, he had been horrified, but Jon had just laughed at him and said that it was fine because Ghost would never hurt him. By now, he knew that to be true of all the direwolves, but seeing that the first time had been quite a shock. Once reunited with their wolves, the children scatter. There will be a feast after sundown, but until then their time is theirs.

\---

He’s standing guard outside for the feast. He wasn’t all that bothered, but the other men who shared the guard complained that it was a special kind of torture to have to stand outside smelling food they weren’t allowed to eat and listening to merriment they weren’t going to partake in. He had gotten used to it because of his time in the Kingsguard, but they had a point. There was little to do but stand around and wait for the drunks to come out so they could help them along.

A couple of them had already been dealt with. Most of them had been queen’s men, but he thinks the has more to do with the sheer number of them and less to do with the Lannister guard being drunkards. He can’t help but find it odd that the king surrounded himself with so many Lannisters. Gold outnumbered silver by three, almost four, to one. The man must have had great faith in his wife’s men.

The sudden increase in sound alerted him to the door opening. He scans the space and notes that the rest of the guard are all occupied, some in more valid ways than others. Having only seen Robert and, maybe, Cersei as people who could likely recognize him, he approaches whoever has stumbled drunk out of the hall.

He finds Tyrion pressed against the wall; though, the man doesn’t strike him as particularly drunk. There is no swagger or fogginess, he seems to be leaning against the wall instead of slumped against it for support, and, when the man turns to look at him, he looks at him instead of passed him.

“Lord Tyrion, are you in need of assistance?”

“ _Lord_ Tyrion? Don’t let my sister hear you say that or she’ll have your tongue.” Tyrion’s tone is joking but he can read the serious warning underneath.

Still, he can’t help but say, “But you are the heir of Casterly Rock.” _Even if Jaime had not been… gone, Jaime had joined the Kingsguard and had given up his rights to the castle. Casterly Rock did not follow the customs of Dorne, so he doesn’t understand why Tyrion wouldn’t be acknowledged as heir._

Tyrion laughs but he senses an undercurrent of pain. “I like you. Because I like you I’ll warn you to keep those words to yourself.”

He wants to know more. To push about why speaking the truth might get him in trouble. Instead he nods. “You didn’t answer if you needed anything.”

The man looks him over, before focusing on his face. “Some company would be fine. To make sure I don’t vomit anywhere that inconveniences you…” The question for his name sits in the air.

“Vorian.”

“Vorian?” Tyrion hums. “A Dornish name for a Dornish face. Tell me how did a Dornishman find himself so far north?” _Definitely not as drunk as he is pretending to be._

“Lord Stark saved my life. I pledged myself to his service after that.” A lie but what was one more after so many.

“Vorian? Why does that name familiar to me?” He had no idea why that name would sound familiar to him. Recognition comes to Tyrion with a snap of his fingers. “I remember. Vorian Dayne, the last king of Starfall. Sent to the wall after the Martells won Dorne.”

A part of him wants to correct the Lannister. To say that _Nymeria_ and the Martells won Dorne. “You seem well informed about Dorne’s history.”

Tyrion shrugs. “On Dayne history, mostly.”

The comment feels like a trap. He is confident that Tyrion does not know him, and that he can’t see the violet of his eyes in the dark, but it doesn’t stop the slow crawl of paranoia up his spine. “Dayne history?”

“Aye. An interesting family with their Sword of the Morning business.” He only hums in response. When the silence drew for too long, Tyrion spoke again. “If you’ll humor a drunkard’s honesty, I don’t really care for the Daynes and their fancy sword. But my brother did and reading about them reminds me of him.”

He can think of nothing to say, so he stands there quiet. Whether it’s the honesty or the silence that fluster the Lannister he doesn’t know, but the man waves his hand dismissively. “The night air had done wonders. You can move along and do whatever it is you are supposed to do.”

“If you need anything feel free to ask.” He steps away, back to his post. He hears the sound of hands scrabbling against stone and sees Tyrion climb up the wall out of the corner of his eye. Deciding that it was none of his business, he drifts a bit further from his designated post for some plausible deniability.

He must have gone too far because he didn’t notice when the door opens again. He only notices someone stepped out because they approached him. He feels a slight pressure press against his calf and looks down to see Ghost. He isn’t surprised he hadn’t heard the direwolf. Ghost lived up to his namesake and could move through snow like a whisper.

He turns around as sees Jon walking towards him. His face and eyes are red, but it’s hard to tell from what, feasts tended to be warm, smoky affairs. He can guess that Jon’s unusual swagger comes from too much drink. The boy stumbles into him and he can smell the wine on him.

“Why are you leaving the feast?”

Jon straightens himself and seems slightly embarrassed. “Because I can. The feast is tenser than I thought it would be and no one’s going to keep me from leaving.” He thinks he owes the casualness of the answer to the drink. Dinner being tense make him think that Tyrion hadn’t been drunk at all and was just looking for a reason to leave himself.

“Where will you go?”

“My room. I’m tired.”

He nods and pats Jon on the shoulder as he steps aside. He watches as Ghost circles around Jon before trotting off behind him. He moves back towards his post, listening to the dual crunch of his and Jon’s steps.

When he reaches his post, he notices that he doesn’t hear Jon’s steps. He turns and sees that Jon is looking at him. The boy’s eyes seem to shine in the firelight. “Vorian, do you ever wonder about who your father was?”

In his story, he had decided that he had known his mother, but that she had died when he was young. That she had lived long enough to tell him that he was the son of some Dornish lord, but not long enough to tell him which. “Not really, no.” He had never put though into who his supposed father could be because it didn’t matter.

Jon gives a slow nod and he knows that question had been a projection. A question to feel out if he struggled with the same things Jon did. “Some man, no doubt,” he says sadly.

“No doubt.” And with that Jon turns and walks away. Not telling Jon about his parentage was Ned’s decision, but the longer it takes the more he wonders if it’s the right decision. The longer they wait the more it will hurt the boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Arthur chapters are so much harder to write than the Jaime/Rhaenys chapters. He is both, harder for me to get into the mindset of and hard to fit into the existing events like I want him to.


	4. Rhaenys

Once _Lover’s Remembrance_ was past the Stepstones and drew near Dorne, Xhoru had called them above deck to see the Dornish coast. This part of the coast was mostly cliff sides and rocky beaches, but Xhoru had said that there were sandy beaches further towards the west. There was nothing note-worthy about it, except that it was her mother’s homeland. Ser Jaime had told her that she had been here once, with her mother before Aegon had been born, but she doesn’t remember it. She wonders if she had liked it then. If she had been able to appreciate Dorne’s uniqueness as a baby.

Thinking about what would happen once they reached Sunspear made her nervous. It felt like a bird had made its nest in her belly, like something sat heavy inside her and, whenever she contemplated what could happen, it felt like that bird fluttered around in flight. What would her uncles think of her? Would they like her? Would they even believe it was actually her? What would they want to do with the knowledge that she was alive? Each question was just wind under this little bird’s wings and if she sat contemplating too long she risked making herself nauseous.

Though, contemplative moments were few and far in between. Even if he wouldn’t say it, Ser Jaime was also worried and rarely left her alone. Balerion, sensing her unease, would always try to get her to play with him if she was sitting alone. They were also stuck on a ship, meaning there weren’t many isolated spaces for her to sit around and think.

She was on good terms with a good chunk of the crew, she had found that being polite and speaking their language was usually enough to get people to like her, and, if they weren’t busy, they would usually stop to talk to her. But she was closest with the ship’s Gold Guard, or the ship’s archers. The guard captain had invited her to watch them practice once and, after seeing her shoot in the Summer Islander’s fashion, they let her participate too. She was lucky Ser Jaime found archery boring, because he would have had a heart attack if he ever saw her training to catch an arrow being shot at her. The guard captain had said that any archer worth their bow could catch an arrow being shot at them and she had quickly bullied them into teaching her. She could do it consistently in the calm of practice, but she had some doubts about being able to do it in a fight.

She didn’t think she’d be able to practice this skill once they reached Dorne. The guard captain had implied that only Summer Islanders trained this skill, so she was unlikely to find someone who understood the want for the skill and she didn’t think anyone would be too pleased with someone shooting arrows at Princess Elia’s daughter, no matter the reason why. She was dully aware of how much her life was likely to change once they reached Sunspear.

Ser Jaime had allowed her a lot of freedom. In Braavos, he had allowed her to race around the foggy canals with the other children and to learn how to wield a blade. In the Summer Isles, he had let her take up archery and explore on her own. In Myr, he had encouraged her to take up an apprenticeship and had trusted her word whenever she deviated from their schedule. If the princes believed she was who she claimed to be, then all that freedom could disappear. She could end up living a completely different life.

Questions and doubts swirled around her, waiting for a chance to plague her. Part of her wants this to be done, to get to Sunspear now and deal with the consequence. Another part of her wants to never reach Sunspear, that part of her fears rejection and the unknown. There is so much she doesn’t know about Dorne and its people and she fears they may not like her or accept her. What would they do if Dorne turned them away? But her fears don’t matter to the ship. It keeps moving forward and, before she knows it, they are closing in on Planky Town.

She wakes up the next morning to someone knocking on the cabin door. Jaime gives her a minute to make herself presentable before opening the door. Xhoru is standing on the other side, and Jaime waves him in so that he can enter.

“I will only take a moment of your time. Tomorrow, at around midday, we should be arriving at Planky Town. We will be doing some trading, so we will be staying there for a couple of days, if you need the time.”

“Thank you for telling us.” Politeness has always been second nature to her, not matter how she was actually feeling.

“I only came to tell you that. If you’ll excuse me, there are things that need to be done before we get there.” With a nod from Jaime, Xhoru steps out of the room.

Ser Jaime turns to look at her. “Are you ready?”

The roll of her shoulders is much more casual than she feels. “Even if I wasn’t, it’s not like we can turn back.”

“I guess not.”

They spend the rest of the day in the captain’s cabin. They talk, but not about their worries. They eat, but their nerves keep them from eating much. They try and relax, but the silence seems to itch. When the day comes to an end, they try and sleep, but they spend the night uncomfortable awake up until they aren’t.

The next day they spend on deck. They say their goodbyes to the crew, but everyone had known that this would be temporary. She can see the Dornish coast out of the corner of her eye, a constant reminder of what’s coming. She jokes and laughs with the crew, but she feels like each laugh is more hysterical then it should be. If anyone notices they don’t call her out on it. Her nerves are alight and she just wants to reach Planky Town and be over it.

Xhoru was right, they reach Planky Town by midday and upon arriving she feels all her anxiety disappear. There is something special about the town. She has spent her whole life in port cities and yet she had never seen a port like this one. There are the usual ships, cog and galleys and the like, but she also sees a different kind of boat. These boats are, comparatively, small and flat and beautiful. Some of them have enclosed cabins and others have things that resemble canopies instead. Some sit empty, waiting for cargo, others sit full or barrels and crates, and a few are full of flowers, so much so that she can barely see the boat underneath. They’re all painted. She sees one that is painted a bright red with gold fish across the side. There is another one that is only covered in different shades of green, one that has all the colors of the rainbow, one that glows in its bright blues and yellow, and so many more.

She spots a man leaving the port and sees how he uses a pole to push himself away from the docks. It’s enough to remind her of a book she had transcribed in Myr. The book had been about the Rhoynar and the people they had been before the Valyrians had destroyed their cities and enslaved their people. Of how their grand cities had been built on the water and that, instead of having streets and carts, their cities had canals and pole boats. She wonders what else Dorne has adopted from the Rhoynar. If she’ll see floating gardens further along the river. If any of the castles here were made of colored marble or lined with canals instead of streets. If there is a place here full of fountains and flowers.

She and Jaime are corralled to the side when it’s time to dock. Ser Jaime does not look anywhere near as excited as she feels, but Balerion does. Balerion doesn’t mind sea travel, but he’s never been a fan of being cooped up for too long. She is sure he is more excited at the prospect of wide open spaces and exploring, than he is about this being Dorne. It’s hard to fault the cat, she is also excited for the feel of solid ground under her feet.

“Can I disembark with you?”

“If you’d like. Are we going to take Dread with us?”

She looks down at Balerion, who looks back with large, begging eyes. She looks the cat in the eye and says, “Only if Dread sticks close to me and doesn’t go running off.” The cat meows, seemingly accepting her terms. Balerion had always been a smart cat and, in moments like these, she felt like he truly understood what she was saying.

“We should go looking for inns and then see what kind of transport options there are.”

“Can we do that while also exploring the city?”

Ser Jaime looks at her, so she puts on her best smile. “We can do both.”

They follow Xhoru off the ship. Balerion trots down alongside her and she envies his steady gait. Ser Jaime links his arm through hers and she’s grateful for it, because without it she feels like her legs may go out from under her. Being on a ship had never been hard for her, but the adjustment from sea to solid land always messed with her sense of balance. Ser Jaime holds her arm tightly and she can’t decide if it’s because he’s worried she’ll fall or if it’s to try and keep her from running off.

The temptation to run off is there. Planky Town feels different from all the other ports she’s been in. This place isn’t muggy like Braavos had been, the air here is warm and mostly dry feeling. The air smells clean and sweet, unlike Volantis’s cloying, rotten stench. The port is nowhere near as crowded as the ones she had seen in Essos. There was so much space to move around in that people had set up stands on the docks to immediately meet visitor’s needs. There were people selling food and supplies, men shouting about how they would buy things here so that captains didn’t have to search around for buyers, people offering sailors tastes of their wine, women selling fabrics covered in geometric patterns they claimed were Rhoynar based, men and women offering their services for some coin, and healers offering treatment.

Jaime tries to pull her out of the mini market, but she manages to stop them in front of a flower vendor. The stand is full of a rainbow of cut blooms. Most of the blooms sit in bundles in vases, but some hang in chains from the roof of the stand. There are flowers of all types and sizes, plenty of which she has never heard of before. The woman in charge of the stand, tells them that her family grows the flowers further up the Greenblood. When she asks if they grow them in floating gardens, the woman hands her a hibiscus flower with a wink. The bloom is bright red and the size of her palm. She tucks it into her hair and waves goodbye as she lets Jaime have his way and they leave the docks.

It seems like the Rhoynar’s influence ended at the docks. They had been known for not just for their water based culture but also for their opulent culture. For painting their cities and banding structures with precious metals and giant, geometric buildings. She doesn’t see any of that, but she still thinks Planky Town is beautiful. Past the docks, the buildings are short and square. Instead of being painted, the buildings are variable, natural shades of red and brown. Homes and simpler building were made out of stones bricks that seemed to interlock perfectly, without needing binders. They quickly realized that more important buildings had sculpting across their walls, but the sculpting doesn’t clue them into what purpose the building served.

They town is obvious organized and well-spaced, but they have no idea where they are going. They eventually stumble into a plaza in the center of town. The space is large and surrounded by buildings. There are children racing around, yelling and laughing. There are adults doing chores and running errands. There is a fountain that is spraying a light mist of water into the air. Fruit trees that add some shade and sweetness. The stones underneath their feet have been worn smooth by use, but she can see hints of the vibrant colors they had once been.

“Can we sit by the fountain?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Jaime look at her. “We can do that.”

They dodge around the children and share polite nods with the adults. There are flowers floating in the fountain. Not water lilies or anything that could be growing in the water, but flowers that someone would have to had added to the water. The mist of the fountain is clean instead of salty and she wonders how they get fresh water to the fountain. Ser Jaime doesn’t sit with her on the fountain’s edge, but he seems relaxed all the same. Balerion winds around Jaime’s legs before racing off toward the tree line.

She sticks her hand into the water and fishes out one of the flowers. She catches a little white flower with a yellow center. It’s five petals are ridged on one side so it makes it look like the flower is swirling. She is pretty sure it’s a plumeria flower, she goes ahead and tucks that one into her hair too.

“Do you miss your home?”

Ser Jaime was scanning the surrounding building. He doesn’t turn to look at her, but she can see his face scrunch in thought. “Not really. The Rock wasn’t particularly welcoming. If anything, it’s leans more toward dark and damp. It was the people who made living there worth it.”

She hums in response. His response made sense, he had never talked about locations fondly. When Jaime spoke about his past, the stories had always focused on the people he was with. He spoke of events and actions not where he had been and what he had seen there. If she had to guess, she would say that Ser Jaime found his home in people, not places.

“How are you feeling?”

She leans back to bask in the sun. “I feel like I’ve come home.”

“We haven’t even gotten to where we’re supposed to be.” Jaime turns to look at her, so she can see the hints of a smile pulling at his lips. “Do you like it better than Braavos?”

She kicks out her foot and catches him in the shin. The hint of a smile becomes a full-blown grin. “That’s not fair! Braavos and Dorne are radically different.”

“Aye, but if you had to pick one.”

“We haven’t even seen much of Dorne! And Braavos is only a city. Dorne is a whole region.”

“I hear a lot of talk, but no answer.”

“That’s because there is no answer. I refuse to do it,” she huffs.

Balerion interrupts them by racing back. The cat jumps up onto the fountain edge and drops an orange ball on her lap. She picks it up and sees that Balerion had brought her an orange. Ser Jaime hands her a dagger from his belt and she begins to peel the fruit.

She yelps when she exposes the orange’s pulp. Bright red oozes from the fruit and for a second she thinks she cut her finger, but as she inspects her finger she sees that her skin in unbroken. “It’s a blood orange,” Ser Jaime says. “They’re one of the fruits Dorne is known for, along with pomegranates and olives.”

She sucks the juice off her finger and is delightfully surprised by its sweetness. Jaime hold his hand out in front of her, so she deposits a slice into his palm. Balerion curls against her thigh, apparently uninterested in the fruit. They’re quiet as they share the fruit. Once they finish the orange, Balerion crawls into her arms. Sometimes her cat could be such a baby, but she loves him anyways.

She feels warm in a way that can’t just be attributed to the sun. She feels that warmth soak into her bones. _My mama is here, I can feel her._

She wants to bottle the feeling of this moment. The warmth, the sweetness, and the sense of safety. She hopes that Sunspear is like this. That arriving there will also feel like coming home. She knows better than to set her expectations so high, but her heart refuses to listen to her. Her heart wants to love all of Dorne. Her heart wants to unconditionally love her mother’s homeland and all its people. _Maybe that’s my mama speaking to me. Maybe that’s what she would have wanted._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that GRRM was inspired by Pakistan and Spain for Dorne, but I know little and less about these two countries. My Dorne will take influence from Southeast Asian culture and Mesoamerican culture. For reference my Planky Town is inspired by Xochimilco and my Orphan Boats are inspired by trajineras.


	5. Arthur

With the king in Winterfell, it becomes very difficult to try and talk to Ned. Lord Stark had to spend his days hosting and entertaining the king and his royal family. Between that and his lordly duties he has little time to meet with a, supposedly, unimportant guard. He also feels like the man may be avoiding him, which, if he wasn’t furious, would be valid.

He’s so mad he can’t find it in himself to be grateful that the king is leaving the day after tomorrow. Avoiding the king and queen had been easy, but, aside from Tyrion, he was tired of the Lannisters. Prince Joffrey and his sworn shield proved worse than he had thought. The prince was confident in his status getting him his way, when that failed him his sworn shield would step in and, at the very least, make sure the boy was amused. The queen’s men also tended to be arrogant and disrespectful, but in much more subtler ways. They understood the importance of keeping appearances, but were only willing to put in minimal effort.

Regardless, he still manages to corner Ned in his solar. The lord had excused himself to his solar to attend to some lordly duties, but everyone was aware that it was actually an attempt at finding some peace. Seeing his first, and likely only opportunity, he headed towards the solar.

When he enters, the lord is sitting behind his desk. Ned looks haggard and tired, but he doesn’t let it stop him. “The Night’s Watch.” Ned lets out a sigh. “You’re sending the boy to the Night’s Watch.”

“He chose the Night’s Watch on his own.”

“He’s making an uninformed decision,” Arthur responds with a hiss. “He doesn’t know everything he should know. But you do.”

“I do know.”

“The Night’s Watch’s men take a vow. They give up their rights to wives, children, and their family name.”

“I’m aware-”

“But Jon isn’t! He has no idea what he has agreed to give up. He doesn’t even know he has anything to give up.”

“And maybe it’s for the best.”

“For the best?” He feels an iciness settle over his body. “What’s for the best?”

“Maybe it’s for the best that he joins the Night’s Watch. Robert is king, I’m going to be his Hand. The realm has suffered enough war.”

Arguing about the Night’s Watch isn’t getting him anywhere, so he decides to switch to something else. “With him going north and you going south when are you going to tell him?” Ned shoots him a dark look. He has always had a knack for finding truths people didn’t want to address. “Are you ever going to tell him?”

“Of course.” The response is too quick. An instinctual response, not a thought out one.

“When.” Ned glares at him. If Ned were the type of man to indulge in angry outburst he’s sure the man would have one now. If Ned is hoping he’ll be cowed by a glare, the man is wrong. Arthur Dayne had dealt with King Aerys when the man had been in his worse moods, he could stand Lord Stark. “When.”

“There are things happening south. After those things have stabilized, I will come back north and tell him.” Even if Ned didn’t recognize what he’s suggested, Arthur does. A vague goal with no definitive end. An end goal that would always hang over the horizon and that, whenever that horizon got to close, could be moved back when he didn’t want to reach it.

“After he’s joined the Night’s Watch.”

Ned can sense the trap. He warily responds with, “After he joins the Night’s Watch.”

“Have you ever thought about how he would react after you told him?” If Ned is confused by the non-sequitur, he doesn’t show it. “Have you thought about how you would tell him? How much detail you would include? What you would leave out? What he needs to know immediately and what can wait for later?” His questions only receive glares for answers. “If you haven’t, know that I have. I’ve asked myself all those questions. I have answers to those questions. I’ve thought about what I would tell him. About what can wait for later and about what I would never want to tell him. But more importantly I’ve thought about how he’ll react.”

He lets that statement hang in the air. He wants Ned to ask him. He’s agonized over this question. He’s laid awake from guilt, because he knows the response. He wants Ned to want to know, to truly listen to him because he is invested in knowing the answer. They stand there staring at each other. Ned with his icy facade and him with his adeptly contained anger.

Ned cracks first. “How will he react?”

“With anger. And he’ll have a right to it. The boy will feel betrayed. He’ll look at us both and remember that we have known his whole life. That a thing he has agonized and obsessed over could have been resolved if we had told him. Even if we explain it to him, even if we can make him understand why we did what we did, he won’t truly _understand_. My sister used to say that the head has little say over the heart. And in his heart the boy will remember our betrayal.”

“Telling him would put him in danger.” There is a desperation there. Like Ned thinks he doesn’t understand. He’s aware of the danger. He’s aware that they’ve committed treason by letting the boy live. That his very presence here is treason.

“There’s always been a danger. The question is whether the danger was worth it.” Ned opens his mouth to argue with him, but he doesn’t let him say anything. “The longer you wait the more it will hurt him.”

Ned cradles his head in his hands. He feels for the man, they are stuck in a devil’s knot and none of the options open to them look good. But a decision must be made and the boy needs to know. No matter how they decide to do this, Jon needs to know. “I can’t keep him from joining the Night’s Watch. It would be too suspicious and raise too many questions. I also need to go south, there are things happening there that must be dealt with. But I’ll tell him. When things have calmed down I will come back and tell him.”

It doesn’t feel like enough. He wants to push for a time frame or a date, something definitive, but he recognizes that this is Ned’s concession. That Lord Stark has other concerns he won’t share with him, but they are apparently enough for him to head south. The south had consumed his family and, for a while, it had almost seemed like Ned was afraid that it could consume him too. War had been the last thing to take Ned south, with no obvious threat on the horizon, he can’t imagine what has convinced him to go back.

“With your leave, Lord Stark.” Usually this would be a question, but his irritation makes him curt. Ned nods, eager to be alone. He doesn’t storm out of the room, but it’s mostly because of his sense of composure.

He carefully makes his way through the castle halls. He doesn’t want to attract any unnecessary attention, so he keeps his steps light and focused, like he has been sent on a task. No one looks at him oddly nor do they question his movements.

He finds himself in front of Jon’s bedroom. He hears the shifting of movement that lets him know someone is inside. He raps his knuckles against the door and waits.

Jon opens the door and invites him into the room. He sees a trunk on the floor, packed with clothes and other personal belongings. His stomach sinks, the boy looks excited to go. “You’re really joining the Night’s Watch.”

“I am,” Jon says with a grin.

A part of him wants to tell him. To expose the truth of his parentage and who he truly is. “And there’s nothing I can do to convince you otherwise?” But he doesn’t. He can’t. There was too much risk in telling him now.

Jon side-eye’s him. “Why would you want to convince me otherwise?”

“Nothing to delay your leave?”

“No.” Jon starts to look irritated. “I’m joining the Night’s Watch. I’ll become a sworn brother and prove that bastards can have honor.”

“You already have honor, there’s no need for you to prove it,” Arthur says sadly. He reaches out to hold Jon’s shoulder and the boy eyes him warily for it. “I will miss you, once you’re gone.”

Understanding comes over Jon’s face. The boy looks awkward now, like Arthur’s display of emotion was too much for him. “The Night’s Watch is a noble calling. I’ll go and make my father proud.”

A terrible part of him is tempted to tell him that the Night’s Watch is not what he expects it to be. To dash the boy’s hope in an attempt to keep him here. But he’s never been a ruthless man and he cannot do it. Instead he only says, “I know you will.”

\---

If feels like the whole guard has disappeared to partake in the king’s hunt. With so many important people leaving for the hunt, and a strong belief in the inherent safety of castles, only a token force has been left to stand guard. He is not on guard duty, but he tries to remain alert as he walks.

He’s heading to check on the direwolves. While the wolves were allowed to travel with their masters, if they weren’t with a Stark child they were supposed to stay in the godswood. It was a safety precaution for both the visitors and the wolves. The direwolves were well trained, but Ned didn’t want to take any risks.

He’s stuck circling in the godswood. He could have sworn he saw a flash of dark fur out of the corner of his eye, but when he turns there is nothing there. As far as he knows Shaggydog, Grey Wind, and Bran’s wolf should be here. Grey Wind hadn’t been allowed to go on the hunt for fear of him spoking the horses. Rickon had been playing with Prince Tommen and Shaggydog made the little prince nervous. He’s unsure why Bran’s wolf is here, but he assumes it has to do with the boy wanting to get into mischief and not wanting his wolf to give him away.

He does eventually find them. The trio is settled in front of the weirwood tree. Grey Wind is tussling with Shaggydog, all gentle bites and murmured growls. He does find it a bit odd, how Grey Wind acts like an older sibling to Shaggydog considering the two are the same age. The pair spare him a look before going back to their playing. Bran’s wolf is pressed against the floor, chewing on some bone. The direwolf watches him, in a curious fashion rather than an intimidating one.

He had asked Bran why he hadn’t named the wolf yet and the boy had told him that no name he thought of felt right. All the other Starks had named their direwolves almost instantaneously. Arya had been the quickest, having taken one look at her wolf and giving her a name. Robb had been the slowest, in that he named his wolf by midday instead of minutes after knowing the animal. Even with their quick namings, each name felt like it suited its direwolf.

Having found them, and ensured their wellbeing, he contemplates leaving the wolves on their own, when Bran’s wolf grows agitated. The wolf jolts into standing and it not only startles him but the other direwolves. Grey Wind and Shaggydog’s tails stick out straight behind them and he looks around to try and find what has set them off. He refocuses on Bran’s direwolf when the wolf tosses his head back and begins to howl. For a moment, all he can hear is the howl, but then it’s layered by something else. Something more human.

He races off in the direction of the scream. He can hear the direwolves take off after him. There is something terrifying about the sudden stop of the scream. It’s not completely quiet, there is a flurry of sound from people racing around and the continued howling of Bran’s direwolf, but he feels like the air is holding its breath. After they pass through the walls of the godswood, the direwolves over take him. Under normal circumstances he’d feel bad about letting the direwolves free, but something about their confidence makes him feel like they know where they’re going more than he does.

He follows after them to the base of the First Keep. The wolves circle around something on the ground and turn to stare at him. He feels his heart thump in his throat as he steps closer. He feels a pressure develop in his chest as he catches sight of the figure on the ground.

Bran stares up at the sky, his blue eyes unseeing. The boy’s legs are splayed at unnatural angles and it makes him sick to focus on them. He hovers his hand over the boy’s face and lets out a heavy breath in relief when he feels a warm puff of air hit his hand. Grey Wind shuffles forward and runs his tongue against Bran’s face, but it doesn’t wake the boy up.

He crouches next to Bran and tries to survey how hurt Bran is, but he doesn’t know these types of injuries. His maester had taught him the basics of treating cuts and punctures, but not fall injuries. He doesn’t even know if he should touch the boy. If picking him up or moving him will make his injuries worse. But it also feels wrong to just leave him lying there.

The sound of footsteps make him look up. He doesn’t really see who approaches but he shouts for them to get Maester Luwin. The person tries to get closer, but the direwolves close in and begin to growl. Normally he would scold the wolves, but it gets the person moving so he allows it.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, with him kneeling alone by Bran’s side, but it feels like too long. He has a desperate urge to do something, but he has no idea what he should be doing. Again, there is the sound of people approaching. He turns and spots Maester Luwin; though, he only identifies the man by his grey robes. The man has brought other people with him and they all approach in a group.

Or rather try to, because the direwolves circle again and growl. The bassy-rumble sinks deep into his bones and makes his skin crawl. “Enough.” The voice that comes out of him mouth feels like it belongs to someone else. And maybe it does because it was the voice Arthur had used to command people, a voice he hadn’t used in over a decade. The direwolves look at him, in what feels like a challenge, but they do back down.

The men continue their approach and quickly recoil. Only Luwin remains stalwart. That’s not to say that the man is unaffected, he can see the pain show through the man’s eyes, but Luwin knows there are things he needs to do. The maester begins to rattle off orders and the other men around them burst into action. The maester kneels and checks over Bran. The shake of Luwin’s head doesn’t bode well, but someone’s passing question is what really chills his blood.

“Who’s going to tell Lady Stark?” Everyone present shares the desperate looks of people who don’t want to be the bearers of bad news. Bran was Lady Catelyn’s favorite and while the boy wasn’t dead, how were they supposed to tell her that he was this hurt? And just because he wasn’t dead now, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t die later.

Luwin looks like he’s going to speak up, but he interrupts the maester. “I’ll do it.” The maester goes to argue with him, but he doesn’t let him speak. “You need to attend to Bran. I’ll tell her.”

“If you’re going to tell her you should go now, before she hears it from anyone else.” Everyone else present sends him pitying looks. He nods and stands to go. He sends one last look towards Bran’s broken body and heads to the Great Keep.

He isn’t as careful as he probably should be. He doesn’t care who looks at him or what kind of looks they send his way. The Grey Wind and Shaggydog pad softly after him and the mournful howling of Bran’s wolf, who had stayed by Bran’s side, fills the air. _Bran’s direwolf, that direwolf may never get a name._

Once inside the Great Keep, people quickly point him to where Lady Stark is. Grey Wind leaves his side to go somewhere else in the keep, but Shaggydog doesn’t leave his side until he reaches the room he’s been guided to. Lady Stark and the rest of the legitimate Stark children have gathered in a sitting room. Shaggydog peels from his side to go sit with Rickon.

“Is Bran with you? Do you know where he is?” He’s never seen Lady Catelyn excited to see him, but he thinks this is the closest he’s ever going to get. She gets up and stands in front of him and even goes to grab his arms, before she remembers herself.

He looks over her shoulder at Sansa, Arya, and Rickon. They don’t seem to know what is happening, but they look worked up. He keeps his voice low and says, “Lady Stark, if we could have a word _outside_ of this room.”

Her face breaks. Her eyes begin to water and her hands clench into fists. She doesn’t say anything as she steps around him and out of the room. He follows her out. Once the door has closed, she whirls around and this time does grab his arms. “Is my son dead?”

“No.” Catelyn bows her head with a hiccupped sob. Her fingers dig into his arms like a vice. “But he is hurt. Maester Luwin is with him.”

“How? How is he hurt?”

“It looked like he fell.” He tries to find a way to say what he has to say, but it feels like all his words are escaping him. “It looked serious.”

Catelyn nods and they stand there in silence. In this moment she isn’t Lady Stark, but a mother worried about her son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the nice and inquisitive comments. I hope you were ready for some sad.


	6. Rhaenys

They don’t spend long in Planky Town. As much as she likes the town, they came to Dorne for a reason and that reason isn’t sightseeing. Still, Ser Jaime does let her race around the town while they try to find a way towards Sunspear. Which results in her being the one to find out how they should get to Sunspear. She learns that some of the merchants here join together to take their wares up to Sunspear every couple of months and that they plan on leaving later in the week. She manages to convince a fabrics trader to let them ride in his cart.

They gather their things and leave with the caravan when the time comes. With an expected week of desert travel, she feels a buzz of excitement. Being in Planky Town has soothed her nerves. She is still worried about how her uncles will react to her, but she likes Dorne. Ser Jaime complains about how much the heat makes him sweat, but she can tell that his complaints are superficial.

It’s a little odd sleeping through the day, but the leader of the caravan says that it’s always safer to travel through Dorne at night, that it lowers the risk of heat exhaustion. While she doesn’t really like sleeping through the day, she loves traveling by night. She sits in the back of the cart and watches the land go by. Along the road from Planky Town to Sunspear: there are tall, green cacti, that look like they are waving them by; stout, barrel cacti, with red blooming flowers sprouting off their tops; and thin, scraggly green trees, covered in little, yellow flowers. Because they are moving by night, the air is cool and pleasant instead of sweltering.

But the thing she likes best about traveling by night is looking up at the sky. The sky here is clear and cloudless, so it’s easy to see all the twinkling stars above them and the full moon lights their way. She liked swinging her legs out of the back of their cart, picking seeds out of a pomegranate, a fruit she had quickly learned was her favorite, all while trying to pick out constellation she knew. Ser Jaime would sit with her and they would try to see who could find constellations the fastest and, if he wasn’t trying to make mischief, Balerion would curl up between them. When they ran out of constellations they knew, they stared making up new ones.

It was in moments like these that she didn’t feel like they were Rhaenys Targaryen and her sworn shield Jaime Lannister, but like they truly were Mara Sand and her father Erwin Hill. When one of the merchants had asked about her mother, Ser Jaime had cheekily sung the Dornishman’s Wife. When the merchant had, good naturedly, pointed out that Jaime was alive and that he had left with their daughter, Jaime had only shrugged and said that it was what her mother had wanted. The not-lie reminded her of why they were here and what they were going to do.

The closer they got to Sunspear, the sandier the environment gets. When she asks, a merchant tells her that the space near Sunspear and the Broken Arm was pure desert. That when the children of the forest broke the arm, they sucked the life out of that area to power their magic, leaving it a true desert. Eventually, the vegetation she had seen earlier fades, until there is only sand as far as the eye can see. Here it makes much more sense why the merchants insisted on traveling by night.

They break the night travel rule once they are almost at Sunspear. They start later in the night and keeping moving after dawn. They watch the sun rise and the sand in the air colors the sky in beautiful and vibrant colors. Because it’s early morning the heat isn’t too bad, but if they stay out on the road for too long, the sun would bake them through their clothes.

Ser Jaime calls her forward once they get close enough to see Sunspear’s walls. The castle’s walls are tall and a dusty brown color. Behind the walls, she can see a castle that seems to be reaching for the sky. As they draw closer a merchant points out a large, domed building and a tall, slender tower and tells her that they are the Tower of the Sun and the Tower of the Spear, respectively. A couple of other buildings peek past the top of the walls and, when she asks, the merchant she was speaking to tells her they are probably temples.

The guards at the gate wave them through after checking the carts. The caravan is consistent enough, that the guards don’t really question them as they pass through. After passing though the walls, she is once again filled with wonder. They bumble through narrow roads and crowded buildings. Adults and children move around them, grumbling about the inconvenience. From the second story of, what she is sure is, a brothel, a woman flashes her breasts as they pass by. The smell of cooked meat and spice in the air makes her mouth water and her stomach grumble in hunger.

The buildings closer to the outer wall are generally nicer that the one near the inner walls, the central buildings are obviously older and more patched together than renovated, but there are still beautiful structures among them. Up on a large platform circled by steps, there is a something she recognizes as a temple. The top of the building is a domed piece of stained glass art split into seven sections. The sections faced towards them don’t depict people, but seem to abstractly represent each aspect of the Faith. The panels she can see from her position are dedicated to the Crone, with her lantern shining out a rainbow of color, and the Maiden, invoked by the image of feminine and delicate things.

Their caravan stops near a bazaar, which is mostly supplied by the merchants they traveled with. They leave and head for a recommended inn. While stylistically different, the inn is much like any other inn they’ve been in. They pay for a two-night’s stay and hole themselves into the room they’ve bought.

Ser Jaime set their things down and looks at her. “Tomorrow, I’ll wander around town and see how the castle takes supplicants. Depending on what they say we’ll go in tomorrow or see what we’ll have to do.”

“Do you want me to help with your veil?” The merchants had shown them how to wrap veils around their faces to help keep the sand out of their mouths. She didn’t think it was all that difficult, but Jaime hadn’t gotten the hang of it so she usually helped him do his.

“Are you suggesting I wear one?”

She hums. “We don’t want you to burn.” He reaches out to swat at her arm. In truth, people had sent him odd looks as they had made their way through the city. She couldn’t tell if they were bad looks or curious looks, but she hadn’t liked them none the less.

For the rest of the day, they don’t go far from the inn. They sit in the common space to eat, she darts into the nearby bazaar to try and pick up some gossip, Ser Jaime skulks around to try and get a feel for the area, but, overall, they stick to their room. She’s surprised by how relaxed both of them seem, considering they planned on meeting her uncles tomorrow. But she remembers something Ser Jaime had once told her, about how, before battles, he would feel a calm settle over him, like the stillness before a storm. That night, she sleeps like a baby and experiences a dreamless night.

The next morning, she wakes up early and carefully wraps Jaime’s head until only his bright green eyes show. She wishes him luck, he tells her when she should expect him back, and then he leaves. She passes the time by playing with Balerion. Her loyal cat dutifully plays along and chases the quivering fluff she drags across the floor.

Ser Jaime comes back right on time. “We can go today. If you’re ready we can go today.” She just nods, because words escape her. “Alright, keep your head down and stick close. We don’t want anyone but the Martells to know we are here.”

She leans down to press her head against Balerion’s. “Don’t go far from this room. I don’t want to lose you.” Her cat meows up at her, before curling into a ball on the bed. She runs her hand down his spine, before leaving with Jaime.

She sticks close to Ser Jaime’s side as they head for the castle. There are other people following the same path as they are, but not as many as she may have expected. They walk up the path of the Threefold Gate and after passing the second gate, Ser Jaime removes his head wrap. Her skin crawls at the feeling of people looking at them, but she understood that there was something very suspicious about a man who refused to show his face.

They technically get pass the third gate, but they aren’t allowed to move with the other supplicants, the get pulled aside by some guard. Ser Jaime lays his hand between her shoulder blades and urges her forward. She keeps her gaze fixed on their shoes and feels something start to prickle under her skin. The guard takes them to some shaded alcove and says to Jaime, “What is your business, westerman?”

She can hear the smile in Jaime’s words. “Is it the hair that gave me away?”

“Your business?” The question is more forceful this time.

“We have information for the Princes.” It sounds like the smile is gone. His fingers flex against her back, but it’s the only sign of unease she gets from the man.

“What makes you think the Princes will want to see you?”

She hears Jaime take a deep breath. “We have information from the Sack.” Before the guard gets a chance to respond, Jaime speaks up again. “We bring this information at great risk to ourselves. The Princes will want to hear this.”

She can see the guard’s legs sway and his feet shuffle, obvious signs of indecision. Eventually, the guard lets out a grunt. “Wait here, I need to go speak with someone.”

She looks up and watches him walk away. “I never thought this would be an issue.” Jaime turns to look at her and rubs his hand across her back. Aside from that, they don’t say anything. No one bothers them in their alcove, but she thinks it’s because no one can see them here without looking for them.

She doesn’t know how long they stay there, but eventually the guard comes back to them. “Follow me.”

“Which Martell are you taking us to?”

“Follow me.” The guard turns and walks away. With no other option available, they follow after the guard. She tilts her head down and lets Jaime lead her. She wishes she could take in the castle. That she could look at the people and the architecture, but she’s trying not to gather too much attention. And she’d be too agitated to take it in anyway.

They follow the guard into a building. The floor under her feet turns into white marble veined with dark gray and gold streaks. The light around them becomes a mix of fire light and sunlight filtered through colored glass. She can hear people move around them, but she can’t identify what they are doing. They move away from these public spaces into more secluded hallways. The only people in this space are guards patrolling through their designated routes.

They stop in front of a closed door. “Wait,” the guard says and walks into the room. He isn’t in there long, after a few seconds, no more than a minute, the guard steps out and gestures for them to go in. They step in, but the guard doesn’t follow them, instead the man closes the door behind them and she swears she can hear him step away.

She’s still looking at the floor, so she can’t be sure, but she thinks this might be some sort of sitting room. The room is awash with muted sunlight and she can see nice carpets, and the bottoms of finely carved chairs and tables. She can’t see anyone, but she does feel Jaime jolt beside her. A part of her wants to crush herself against his side, but she resists the urge and stays where she is.

They stand in silence for a moment before she hears a voice, a woman’s voice say, “Morgan, please keep watch outside.” There is a pause, before footsteps move towards her and Jaime. Jaime pulls at her shoulder for her to move aside. Still, she doesn’t move far enough, because the person leaving, _Morgan_ , has to turn to get past her. She tilts her head up to look at the person walking by. He’s a man, maybe about her age, with pale, unusually pale compared to all the other people she has seen in Dorne, skin and black, wavy hair. They make eye contact and she can see the curiosity in his greyish-purple eyes, before he opens the door and is gone. With that she focuses her head back down on their shoes.

“Your names?” The woman speaks again. Her voice is light and there is a slight hint of an accent that seeps into her words like smoke.

“Erwin Hill and my ward, Mara.” Jaime’s voice doesn’t waver, but she can tell that he’s nervous. Something about this woman has caught him off guard. There is also no ignoring that this woman is not one of her uncles.

“Erwin Hill.” The woman’s voice drags out the name. There is the sound of a chair moving and of fabric shuffling towards them. She can feel Jaime’s hand close into a fist against her back and an unnatural stillness take over him. As the woman stops in front of Jaime, she can’t help herself and peers up from under her lashes. She can’t see the woman’s face, but she can see her dress. The woman is dressed in traditional Dornish style. The woman is wrapped in a dark, violet fabric that’s edged with gray satin. Her preferred style shows some of her pale, flat stomach and leaves some of her charcoal-colored, cropped blouse exposed.

The woman lifts her hand, which causes her many bracelets to clink against each other. While the hand leaves her field of vision, she is sure that it has gone up to touch Jaime’s face. “Erwin Hill. I don’t think that’s true…Lannister.”

In the silence, she can hear Jaime swallow. “And what makes you say that.” Jaime’s voice is steady, but she doesn’t think anyone believes that he is completely composed.

“It was only for a little while, but I saw you. You were like a star shining in your white regalia. How could I forget your face, Jaime?” A pause. “My brother spoke so highly of you. Because of him I ask you, why are you here?”

“What the guard told you was true. I have information about the Sack.”

“And a Dornish girl.” With that, the woman shifts over to look at her. The hand that she assumes was on Jaime’s face drifts down to hers. The hand is warm except for two lines of cool metal, that she thinks may be rings. The woman pushes at her head, until she looks up. Her eyes meet bright purple eyes, several shades lighter than her own dark violet. A beautiful face framed with artfully waved, black hair. The woman’s eyes scan over her face and then the other hand comes up to cup her face. The woman’s lips quiver and she hears a soft “Oh,” pass through the air.

“What do you see?” Jaime’s voice is hushed, as though speaking too loudly would violate the moment that is developing.

The woman’s voice sounds watery and moved by some emotion. “Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize my best friend’s face in this girl?” The woman lets go of her face and steps back. “How? We were told they had all died. How?”

“Not this one”

“Is Arthur with you?” With that question things click in her head. This woman is Ashara Dayne, sister to Ser Arthur Dayne and one of her mother’s ladies.

“No.” Jaime sounds confused. “No, didn’t he? I had heard that he had been killed?”

“No. No, it’s just. I thought maybe, since you two have… returned from the dead, maybe he did too.” Something about the exchange reads wrong to her. The Arthur question had come too quickly, and the hope had been too strong for such a small timeframe. _What reason did Ashara have to believe that her brother may be alive?_

Ashara takes a breath and motions for them to sit. Jaime pushes for her to sit in one of the available chairs. They settle and Jaime turns to Ashara. “I thought we would be meeting with a Martell.”

She tilts her head. “You are. I married Oberyn a while ago.” Before Jaime gets the chance to follow up, she speaks again. “You just missed him, he left yesterday to speak with his brother at the Water Gardens, but when I heard why you wanted to speak to him I decided to meet with you myself.”

“How long until he comes back?”

“I can’t say for sure. It depends on what needs to be done.”

She speaks up. “And until then who will I be?”

“Where have you been? I doubt you two have been hiding in Westeros.”

“Essos. Braavos and Myr mostly.”

Ashara thinks for a moment. “We’ll say that you are one of Oberyn’s Sand Snakes. From Myr. A daughter of some Lyseni woman who has finally found her way home. And Jaime can be your protector who made sure you got here.”

“Sand Snakes?”

“A nickname for Oberyn’s bastards. I’ll introduce you to the ones here later.” She starts as though she has remembered something. “Things. You must have things that you’ve brought with you.” Jaime confirms that they do. “You and Morgan, my son, can go back into the city to gather your belongings and get you settled in the castle, while I show… Mara around the castle and get things ready for your stay.”

They both nod their assent. Ashara calls her son back in to give him instructions before sending him back out with Jaime. Morgan looks at them both curiously, but he doesn’t object to being sent out. Ashara motions for her to stand and then takes her arm. “Let’s show you around your new home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a couple of comments on this so I thought I’d give y’all a little behind the scenes action. I’ve left a comment on this chapter that will explain a bit of my decisions regarding Arthur’s choices. If you don’t want to know/aren’t interested in author explanations feel free to skip over it. It is not required reading, it isn’t spoilers or extra content, it is only a look into my interpretation of Arthur (and to a smaller extent Ned).


	7. Arthur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made the interesting choice of starting a Robert loses the rebellion fic. On the one hand it's nice because it's helped get those ideas out of my head. On the other hand there are now times where I don't want to write on this fic and instead want to write for that one.

Bran being in a coma changes surprisingly little. Ned still leaves with the girls to serve as Hand of the King. Jon still goes with Benjen to join the Night’s Watch and, after only a moment of doubt, the boy is more motivated than before. He does try, but nothing he says convinces Jon to stay. The things that change the most are Catelyn Stark and Winterfell.

To say that Catelyn is devastated by her son’s fate would be an understatement. From the moment she was reunited with her son, she has not left his side. She sits by Bran’s bedside and takes care of the boy: feeding him, praying for him, cleaning him, and watching over him. She does nothing but take care of Bran. She takes her meals and sleeps in the room, but she doesn’t take care of her own appearance, she doesn’t talk to anyone who isn’t there to help Bran, and she isn’t willing to listen to anyone who isn’t there to help Bran. As she focuses on taking care of her injured son, she lets her duties as Lady Stark fall by the wayside.

Which adds to the change in Winterfell. Ned had already taken a large chunk of the castle’s staff, but Lady Catelyn had taken no steps to fill any vacancies. Bran’s wolf hasn’t stopped howling since Bran fell, sometimes the wolf can be spooked into stopping, but it just causes Grey Wind or Shaggydog to take up his vigil. Robb had off-handedly mentioned that it felt like the direwolves were keeping Bran alive and, while he didn’t have any idea if that was true, it was keeping Winterfell’s inhabitants awake, which was drawing people’s patience thin.

While Lady Catelyn was taking attentive care of one son, the remaining two had been left to fend for themselves. Robb appeared to be doing well, but he could see that the boy was struggling with taking up the responsibilities of the lord of the castle and trying to watch over Rickon. Rickon had not taken well to the series of events. The stress of his father and sisters leaving, mixed with his brother’s injuries, and his mother’s disappearance had left the boy desperate for attention. Rickon followed Robb like a baby duck and the only person Robb can foster Rickon off to is him. There is something tragic about how the little boy constantly asks Robb if he is sending him off so he can leave and how, after being left with him, the boy constantly asks him if he is going anywhere.

He was currently trying to draw Rickon away from Shaggydog. Having felt like everyone was abandoning him, the boy had turned to his direwolf who he was sure would not abandon him. He doesn’t have an issue with the boy being with his wolf, but it’s hard not to notice how much more _wild_ Rickon has been getting. He finds the boy playing in the dirt surrounded by the three remaining direwolves. The wolves look at him but let him approach. Rickon is sitting in the dirt building unrecognizable piles.

Before he gets the chance to say anything to the boy, Bran’s wolf begins to circle as he howls. The other two stand, suddenly alert, and join the howl. Their focused stances make him look in the direction they are facing and he can see that there is the smoke coming from the library. The kennel dogs join the noise and shouts swell in the yard. He considers heading for the library, but Rickon makes a noise behind him. He reaches down to grab the boy and hears Robb and some guards rushing for the fire.

With all the chaos, it’s Rickon who notices Bran’s wolf take off. He feels Rickon’s little hand pound against his chest and turns in the direction the boy points. He sees a blur of gray fur race towards the tower Bran is in. He has a moment of indecision, before following after the wolf. The sound of a woman’s scream makes Rickon’s hand tighten in his clothes and him up his pace. There is the sound of a struggle near Bran’s room, so he sets Rickon on the floor, with stern words to stay where he is, before drawing his sword and bursting into the room.

He gets there in time to see Bran’s wolf tear some man’s throat. Blood sprays across the room and coats Lady Catelyn’s face. The direwolf gently licks at her injured hand and jumps up to settle himself on Bran’s bed. Intelligent eyes watch him as he approaches Lady Catelyn; though, they aren’t Lady Catelyn’s. She doesn’t seem to see him as he steps toward her.

His skin jumps as she begins to laugh hysterically. His murmured words don’t seem to reach her, so he stops trying to get her to talk to him and just tends to her wounds. He doesn’t know what to do about the chunk of hair pulled out of her head, but he wipes her face and wraps her cut palms with spare pieces of cloth. Seeing that she’s, relatively, alright, he heads out of the room back towards Rickon. The boy looks at him anxiously, also unnerved by his mother’s laughter, but he did stay where he asked him to.

“I need to check the area.” He doesn’t think there is anyone else, the attacker he had seen looked unkempt and untrained, but he should still check. “You should hide in the room with your mother- “

“No.” Rickon interrupting him doesn’t surprise him, but him refusing to be with his mother does. “No.”

“Well,” he flounders for a bit, not knowing what to do with the boy. He strains his ears to try and hear if anyone else is in the halls. “You can… you can get on my back while I check the area.”

He turns and lets Rickon clamber onto his back. Once the boy is secure, he checks through the nearby rooms and passageways. The area proves to be empty, but the sound of Lady Catelyn’s laughter follows them, like some sort of demented ghost.

There is the sound of pounding footsteps and he turns to see Robb and a solid chunk of the remaining guard rounding up the stairs. He signals that there aren’t any active threats in the space and Robb enters his brother’s room. He hangs out in the hall with Rickon, the boy still seems upset by what has happened and he doesn’t want to disturb him by exposing him to all that blood and death.

There is the sound of murmured talk and then the sound of laughter comes to an end. Master Luwin and Ser Rodrik guide Lady Catelyn out of the room. She’s been bundled in blankets and doesn’t turn to look at them when she walks by. After them comes the guard with the dead body held between them. After that, he and Rickon step into Bran’s room.

Rickon breaks from his side to run up to Robb. Robb turns, from looking over Bran, and embraces Rickon. Robb looks over his younger brother, before setting the little boy on his hip. Robb breaks the silence of the room, “His wolf saved them. If it weren’t for him, mother would be dead.” Robb doesn’t wait for him to respond. “If you could watch over Rickon, I have to find out where this… catspaw came from.”

“As you command.” Robb looks grateful for lack of fight. With how Robb holds himself it is easy to forget that he is young, but Robb is still a boy. On top of missing his mother like Rickon was, Robb had been forced to take a mantle he hadn’t been expected to take for years. It was also hard to notice because Robb was holding himself together so well, but the current series of events must have been draining on him. “If you ever need anything, please remember that everyone here is at your service.”

Robb sends him a tired smile, before leaving him alone with the younger boys.

\---

There was no farewell when Lady Catelyn left Winterfell. While not many knew why she was leaving, the fact that she was leaving was clue enough that the reason was important. The fact that she was leaving only with Ser Rodrick was enough for everyone to understand that secrecy was important.

Rickon took her leaving the hardest. The boy was terrified of being abandoned and his mother leaving was proof that his fears were valid. Even now, months after his mother had left, Rickon still worried about Robb disappearing. The boy was a weird mix of anxious fear and angry outbursts. Rickon worried about Robb, Bran, and himself, but was prone to noncompliance when faced with other people.

But there was no ignoring that all the Stark boys were in a hard spot. Rickon was the most obvious with his struggles, being very vocal about his fears. Robb had taken well to being lord of the castle, but he spent more time in the persona of Lord Stark than Robb Stark. There was also a sense of pride that keep him from wanting to appear weak and made him not want to ask for help. Then there was Bran who was all skin and bones, sustained only on honey and melting cubes of ice. Maester Luwin had said that Bran being alive was a good sign, but there was still the question of if Bran would ever wake up. A question that felt like it was more and more likely to be answered with no.

No one wanted to give up hope, but that hope was pulled thin. How much longer could the boy last in a coma and even if he did wake up, how would the boy be when, _if_ , he woke up? Maester Luwin had no answer to these questions. He had said that they wouldn’t know until they knew.

He was also feeling some melancholy because Jon’s decided name day had recently passed. As part of the Ned’s bastard ruse they had pushed Jon’s birthday to some random day and, while he knew it wasn’t the true day, it was the day they had celebrated. Because of Lady Starks distaste for Jon, nothing big was ever planned for the boy’s birthday. Ned would give the boy a gift, once Robb was old enough he would also get his brother something, and he would make sure to plan some actively with Jon.

When Jon was younger, their activities had been had been simple, fun things, meant to distract the boy from people’s judgement of him. Most of the time they end up in the godswood building things in the snow. Once Jon was older, their shared activity had been riding excursions. One of the things Lyanna had been passionate about had been riding and even if he couldn’t tell the boy about his mother, he wanted to make sure they had something to connect them. Jon had taken to riding like a fish took to water and had always said that he enjoyed their trips through the wolfswood. But this year there had been nothing. Jon was not here and Robb and Maester Luwin had been too busy to send a letter.

He wondered if Jon had cared about the lack note. He had joined the Kingsguard when he was young and had not cared about the lack of acknowledgement of his name day because of his new circumstances. But he had also been touched when he received Ashara’s letter wishing him a happy name day, while also complaining about how much she missed him.

His rumination is cut short by the sound of a commotion. Someone is calling for Robb and Maester Luwin. Calling for that combination of people can only mean Bran. For a moment, his blood feels cold in his veins and he fears the worst, but then he hears a woman’s voice exclaim that about someone being awake and he knows that Bran’s alright.

Either Robb was nearby or someone had already raced ahead to find him, because he sees the blur of the boy running towards the tower Bran was being held in. He considers following, but decides that finding the maester is more important and that Robb could use a moment alone with his brother.

He finds the maester in the library. The fire that had been set to distract from Bran’s assassination attempt had been more smoke than fire. So, while no texts had been burned, some had been blackened with smoke. The maester had spent his time, that wasn’t consumed by taking care of Bran or seeing to his maester duties, rewriting those texts to preserve them. He tells the maester about Bran’s awakening and watches as the man leaps away from his work to go and attend to the boy.

He heads towards the tower at a much more sedate pace. He has no idea what sort of condition Bran may be in, but he doesn’t think crowding the boy will help him. Bran was awake, but there was still the question of if he would be well. It feels like the people he passes in the courtyard a waiting with baited breath. The same can be said of the men he passes that are guarding the tower and of the servants frozen inside the tower.

He goes up the stairs, but stops a turn and a half before he would reach Bran’s room. He gently raps his knuckles against Rickon’s door and waits. When he receives no answer, he pushes the door open. Inside the room, he spots Shaggydog and Rickon curled on a carpet on the floor. The black direwolf shifts slightly and opens his eyes to look at him. Green eyes lazily watch him, before the direwolf smacks his jaws and curls back around the boy.

Shaggydog nudges at Rickon, until Rickon begins to stir awake. For a second, Rickon refuses to wake up. The boy burrows into the direwolf’s fur and sleepily grumbles. It takes the direwolf running his tongue across the little boy’s face for Rickon to finally wake up. He softly greets the boy and explains, as best as he can, that Bran’s situation has changed but they still don’t know if Bran will be alright. Rickon confidently tells him that Bran will be new but fine, and he can only nod in, fake, understanding.

Eventually, Maester Luwin comes down to Rickon’s room. He gently tells Rickon that Bran is still adjusting to being awake, but if he wants to see him it might help him feel better. The four of them make an odd sight; two adults, a child, and a direwolf, but the guard standing outside of Bran’s room doesn’t say anything.

Inside the room, they find Robb kneeling by his brother’s bedside, Bran’s wolf settled on the bed, and Bran with the red watery eyes of someone who had been crying. Rickon races from the door and goes to Bran’s other side. Bran gives Rickon a wan smile as Rickon excitedly exclaims about how he knew Bran would wake up. Shaggydog approaches the bed, looks over Bran’s wolf, and licks across the grey wolf’s face.

He can’t help but notice Bran’s lack of movement. The way the boy will occasionally look down at his legs like he’s waiting for something to happen. He can’t say he’s surprised, Maester Luwin had done his best, splinting and realigning bones as best he could, but he had been the one to find Bran. He had seen the unnatural angles the boy’s legs had been in, so he isn’t surprised they aren’t working. Right now, Bran is only skin and bones, so maybe things will be different when he gets back some muscle, but he doesn’t think it will.

He turns at the sound of clicking coming from the doorway. Grey Wind passes through the doorway, carefully navigates the room, and sits next to Robb. He’s stopped questioning how the direwolves knew things they should have no way of knowing. The direwolves’ awareness was one of their least interesting oddities. The thing about direwolves he questioned the most was their personalities, how it mirrored the personalities and the wants of their owners.

Ever since everyone had left, Shaggydog had become fiercely protective of Rickon. He refused to let people get close to Rickon, unless Rickon wanted to be approached, and the direwolf was rarely far from the boy’s side. Grey Wind had changed in two noticeable ways; that direwolf began to dote on the youngest Stark and seemed to patrol through Winterfell. Much like Robb, Grey Wind had become defensive over Winterfell and its inhabitants. And, after being let into Bran’s room, Bran’s wolf had stopped howling, but he had picked up the habit of exploring the castle, the few times he left Bran’s side.

After spending some time with Bran, Rickon left with Shaggydog, Grey Wind, and, the newly named, Summer. After they leave, Maester Luwin gestures for Robb to leave the room with him. He steps forward to stand by Bran’s bedside and puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Bran doesn’t turn to look at him, he just stares at the door his older brother just left though. “He’s going to tell him that I’m broken.”

“What?”

“I’m broken. My legs don’t work”

“Bran-,” he starts, but he doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been in a situation like this and even if he had it likely wouldn’t have given him the sensitivity to comfort a seven-year-old boy. _No, that’s wrong. He’s eight now, his birthday passed while he was unconscious._

His silence is what finally gets Bran to look at him. The boy looks lost and his eyes are on the brink of tears. “I don’t want to be broken.”


	8. Rhaenys

While Lady Ashara shows her around Sunspear, they talk about the things she should know. She learns that Prince Doran, her mother’s older brother and the ruling Prince of Dorne, has debilitating gout and prefers to spend his days at the Water Gardens, a palace northeast of here. She learns that Prince Doran has three children, two of which are here in Sunspear. Lady Ashara describes Prince Doran as a kind, considerate, and thoughtful man, but she doesn’t talk about him as much as she talks about Prince Oberyn.

Lady Ashara tells her that her husband is charming, passionate man who could be very dangerous if provoked. She’s told that Oberyn had been very close with his sister and that the two of them had been as thick as thieves when they were younger. She’s told that he is beloved throughout Dorne and spoke of in hushed whispers in the rest of Westeros. She also learns of his eight bastards, who are known as the Sand Snakes.

Lady Ashara tells her that first half of the Sand Snakes were the children of, relatively, foreign women, but that the last four were all children of his paramour, Ellaria Sand. She hears nothing but good things about Ellaria and her children, the oldest of which is fourteen and the youngest having just turned five. She’s told that they are currently at the Water Gardens, escaping the heat by splashing in its sparkling pools.

The other Sand Snakes are mostly older than her. Lady Ashara names Obara, Nymeria, Tyene, and Sarella. Sarella, is also eighteen, but the rest are eight, five, and three years older than her, respectively. She’s told that Obara and Tyene are here is Sunspear, but that Nymeria and Sarella are pursuing their interests away from the castle. It doesn’t escape her notice that Morgan is not listed as one of Prince Oberyn’s children even though he is Lady Ashara’s son.

She doesn’t ask many questions as Lady Ashara speaks. She feels slightly overwhelmed by today’s sequence of events and because of it, Lady Ashara pushes back meeting her cousins for tomorrow. They head back towards the Tower of the Sun. The study where they had met Lady Ashara was in that tower, but they don’t head in that direction.

Lady Ashara says that she’s had an apartment prepared for her that is near hers. She wants to ask where she has placed Ser Jaime, but she bites her tongue. Lady Ashara hadn’t shown any ill intent towards Jaime and had been very kind to her, so she had no reason to assume that he might be in trouble. Still she wants to know where he is, she wants to know if he’s had any issues.

When she sees him standing, alongside Ashara’s son, outside of, what she assumes to be, her door a childish part of her wants to race forward and grab him. Instead, a little piece of shadow races towards her. Balerion peels away from Jaime’s ankles, so she crouches down to scoop her boy up. She cradles her cat and feels some of her nerves settle. She’s focused on her cat, cooing down at Balerion, but she can still feel Lady Ashara’s eyes on them.

She turns to look at Lady Ashara, but the older woman isn’t looking at her, she’s looking at her cat. Ashara reaches out her hand and gently rests the pad of her finger on Balerion’s head. He allows it for a moment, but then he gets tired of it and reaches his paw up to swat at Ashara’s hand. “What is his name?” There is a waver in Ashara’s voice that she only really identifies because she has spent a good part of the day with her.

“Dread.” Now Ashara look at her, curiously. She sees the shadow of realization come over the woman’s face.

Ashara gives her a watery smile. “Dread, a good name. Makes sense.”

Jaime pipes up from the door. “It does. The cat is a menace.” She sends him a scowl and Balerion meows, seemingly in protest. She spares a look towards Morgan. Again, he looks at them curiously, carefully observing the happenings in front of him, but he doesn’t say anything. Any thoughts or ideas he may be having, he keeps to himself.

“Are the apartments ready?”

Morgan turns and looks attentively at his mother. He gives an even nod and speaks. “They are,” his voice is smooth and features the same smoke-like accent his mother has, “I’ve also been informed that your preferred seamstress and cobbler have arrived in the castle.”

She feels Lady Ashara press a hand against her back. “Do you think you have the energy to see them?”

“I do.”

“Morgan, if you could have them sent to her room, along with food and a bath. Ser Erwin I’d like to have a word with you.” Ser Jaime sends a subtle look her way. After she gives a small nod, he nods his head at Ashara. Lady Ashara gently pushes her towards her room, before leaving with Jaime. Morgan opens the door to her apartments and follows her in. He talks her through her room’s furnishings, when servants would come through to clean, who she should speak to if she wants something particular, and other basic things.

He leaves, but warns that he will be back in a moment. After he goes, she sets Balerion down and carefully surveys the space. They are nice quarters, nicer than anywhere else she has stayed. The window and balcony are covered in slightly tinted glass with two sets of curtains; one set gauzy, likely for keeping insects out when the windows were open, and a heavier set, for keeping light out. The bed is large, lush, and covered in soft, cool fabric. The furniture is all finely crafted, the carpets are intricate, and the space itself feels large. 

After she appraises the room, she turns to the trunk on the floor. It’s the least nice of the two they brought with them and she assumes that Jaime has the other one in his quarters. When she opens it, she notes that only her things are in the trunk. She ignores all the things on top and feels around for the false bottom. When she pulls up the bottom she notices that Jaime’s sword is still in the trunk. She’s not all that surprised, if Morgan had been with Ser Jaime the whole time it would have been difficult to surreptitiously remove the sword.

When Morgan comes back he is accompanied by a crowd of woman. The seamstress goes first and she is surrounded by assistants with measures and pins. The women don’t ask her who she is, but they amicably chat with her as they take every measurement they can. The cobbler comes next. She only has one assistant, but the process is roughly the same. Once they are done, they leave like a whirlwind, leaving her alone with Morgan.

“Your food should be here soon and your bath will be here soon after that.” Morgan turns to peer out one of the windows. “If you’d like I can stay until your bath arrives or I can leave you to your business.”

She rubbed the pad of her thumb against the nail of her other thumb. “I’ll be fine on my own, but I’d like to ask you a question.”

Morgan stands between herself and the door. “What would you like to know?” She wonders if he’s done guard work because his posture brings back faded memories of the Kingsguard and the few times she saw Jaime unnerved enough to fall into that side of himself. He stands straight backed and aloof, his body loose enough for him to be able to react smoothly without looking informal. He’s reigned himself in to the point where it would be easy to ignore him if you weren’t focused on him.

She takes a breath. “Lady Ashara told me that she was my father’s, Prince Oberyn’s, wife and she told me about my sisters. But she didn’t tell me about you.” She recognizes that she didn’t really ask a question, but she doesn’t know how to phrase what she wants to ask in a way that wouldn’t be inappropriate.

“It’s because he is not my father.” Morgan’s face doesn’t change. She doesn’t think he was offended by her prying, but she also hasn’t seen his face be anything other than curious or placid. “At least, not my birth father. Prince Oberyn has treated me like one of his own, but I am my mother’s bastard.”

She can’t resist the curiosity and asks, “Did you know your father?”

“No. He died shortly after I was born, having never known that I existed.” She parts her lips, but can think of nothing else to say. The corner of Morgan’s lips just barely lift and the skin around his eyes also just barely crinkle. “If that’s all, then I’ll be on my way.”

She bobs her head and with that the man turns and leaves. True to his word, the food comes and, almost as though they were waiting for her to finish, her bath comes soon after. She waves away the servants who offer to help her bathe, no one has helped her bathe since she was a toddler and she isn’t going to let that start up again now. It’s late so she settles into her new bed.

It takes a while for her to fall asleep. She can’t decide if it’s because of her new surroundings or if it’s because she doesn’t know where Jaime is. They had always made sure to let the other know where they were and that break in habit leaves her unbalanced. But Balerion does his best to soothe her and she does get a decent night’s rest.

Lady Ashara comes to see her in the morning. They talk and she asks if she is up for meeting her sisters. After their talk in the study room, Lady Ashara had been very careful to not speak about or reference her true identity. Ashara tells her that Trystane is occupied, but she can meet with Obara, Tyene, and Arianne all together if she’s feeling up to it. She agrees to meeting them all together and they head off.

Lady Ashara leads her outside towards a semi-isolated veranda. No one else is here when they arrive. Likely having been waiting for them, a couple of servants come over, as they arrive, and set down drinks and food. Lady Ashara gestures for her to sit and relax.

She picks at some pomegranate seeds and asks, “Why are we here before the others?”

“The Snakes can be overwhelming all together. This way they are likely to arrive staggered and they are much more manageable once you’ve gotten a feel for them.”

“Who do you think will arrive first?”

Lady Ashara taps her nail against the table. “Arianne is likely to come last. She prefers to do things at her own pace and while she loves the Sand Snakes she won’t be in a rush to meet you. It’s hard to say if Tyene or Obara will arrive first. Tyene prefers to be strictly adherent to propriety and will, likely, arrive promptly. But Obara is prone to impatience and will want to know who you are as soon as she can.”

She bobs her head in understanding. They don’t talk while they wait, instead they lounge and enjoy the spread before them. Because of the early hour, the air feels cool and fresh. The cloud cover in the sky shines pink and orange from the early morning sun. This state of morning isn’t going to last long, so she tries to enjoy it for as long as she can.

Its seems like impatience won over propriety. She notices a fierce looking woman march her way towards them. The woman is broad-shouldered and muscular, with her hair pulled back and away from her face. She’s dressed in riding leathers and she just barely notices the shine of spurs from the back of the woman’s heels. She straightens her back, alert and attentive. She feels the slight prickle of apprehension come over her, but Lady Ashara doesn’t seem bothered.

Obara stops at their table, her stance aggressive but her face calm. She looms over them with her arms crossed over her chest and one of her hips cocked to the side. She had always been on the taller side for a woman, but Obara is definitely taller than her; though, likely shorter than Jaime.

“Is this her?” Obara’s accent is much more prominent than Ashara’s and Morgan’s. There is an almost rhythmic quality to her speech, with each word smoothly flowing into the next.

“She is.” Lady Ashara waves over a servant and a cup of dark wine is poured for Obara. After her wine has been served, Obara pulls up a chair to sit.

Obara pulls her chair close to her own. She feels a fierce gaze scrutinize every inch of her body before the gaze settles on her face. Specifically, on her eyes. Obara’s eyes are dark and intense, but she doesn’t let her own eyes waver. She refuses to flinch, she is a Martell and whatever Obara is looking for she will find.

Eventually, Obara nods. “If I didn’t know better, you could have claimed that she was your and father’s true born daughter.”

Lady Ashara tilts her head. “Oh? And what makes you say that?”

Obara taps at the flesh under her eye. “It’s dark, but the purple is there. And they also show that she’s a viper, same as the rest of us.” Obara takes a deep swig of her wine, when the servant reappears to refill her wine, Obara takes the flagon for herself and waves the servant away. Their eyes meet again, but this time it doesn’t feel like Obara is trying to stare into her soul. “What’s your name?”

“Mara.”

Obara snorts. “Not very subtle.”

She relaxes just a little. Some of the tension leaks out of her spine, but not enough for her to lose her perfect posture. “I don’t think that was the point.”

“Interesting. I much prefer bluntness to subtlety.” Obara smiles and it is wild, almost feral. Obara is so obviously dangerous but she only wants to know more. Before she can attempt to investigate, there is the sound of light footsteps.

She turns to see a petite woman. This woman is the picture of delicateness with her cream pale skin, sand blonde hair, and large, rich blue eyes. She wears a dress of pale green fabric that makes her look like an innocent flower. But she is sure that the woman’s innocence is a facade, because her eyes carry the same intensity as Obara’s. In those eyes she sees a glimmer of cunning and suspicion. Obara was willing to take Ashara at her word, but she thinks Tyene will take some convincing.

Tyene goes around giving greetings and pressing kisses to the cheeks of the women at the table. After that Tyene takes a seat, rejecting Obara’s offered wine and instead partaking in the chilled, hibiscus tea she and Ashara are drinking. Tyene sits across from her and she can feel the heavy weight of her piercing gaze. It is interesting how similar Tyene’s gaze is to Obara’s considering how different the two of them look.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, sister. It is a shame it has taken so long for us to meet you.”

 _She is not interested in what I look like, she wants to know if there are any holes in my story._ She brings up one of her best smiles. “It is a shame. I wasn’t until recently that I learned of my father’s identity. I wish I had learned it sooner, I have always wanted to have a family.”

She can see that her response isn’t the one Tyene was expecting. Tyene likely thought that she would mention money or status as the thing she wished for, a sign that she was claiming to be Oberyn’s daughter as a way to raise her status, but that wasn’t what she had given. “A family? Surely you already had one?”

She hesitates for a moment. She recognizes that the hesitation is a mistake, Tyene is likely to see her pause as her struggling to find a lie, but speaking of her mother always feels strange. “My mother, she… she died when I was very young. The only person I had growing up was her friend Erwin, who served as my guardian.”

“Oh, I ask for your forgiveness. I did not mean to remind you of lonely times.” She isn’t looking at Tyene, so she can’t truly gauge how sincere she is being. The words sound earnest, but she has long learned that words can hide what the body cannot.

She bobs her head. “It is alright. There is no way you could have known.”

“On the topic of knowing. How is it that learned about who your father is?”

“My mother was a lettered woman. She kept a journal where she wrote of her… encounters with Prince Oberyn. It wasn’t until recently that I was able to look past my grief and read through it.”

“Where is this journal?”

“Sadly, it did not survive the travel.” A lie that Tyene will rightly question, but she can think of no other. She has to come up with lies that Ser Jaime can work with, so it is in her best interest to stick as close to the truth as best as she can.

“And tell me, how old are you?”

“I turned sixteen not too long ago.” When she was younger, she had asked Ser Jaime about where her mother’s brothers had been during the rebellion. He had told her that Prince Doran was a leader not a warrior so he had stayed in Dorne and that Prince Oberyn had been in Essos long before the uprising began. Saying she was sixteen would put her in that time frame.

Tyene hums. The sound is soft and childish, the pinnacle of purity. “I see. Ashara has told us that you are from Lys.”

“No, my mother was Lyseni, but I was born in Myr.” The look on Tyene makes her think that it is the right answer. She thinks that maybe Prince Oberyn has never been to Lys and that the statement had been a test.

“Now if you could tell me-“

But before she gets a chance to say whatever it is she plans on asking, Obara interrupts her. “That’s enough. She has the eyes of the viper and she has answered your questions, even Nym would be satisfied with that.”

Tyene tilts her head towards Obara. “Sometimes you can be too trusting.”

Obara snorts. “Our blood does not lie. Ashara does not lie. Even if Mara has found a way to trick Ashara, she will not be able to fool father.”

For a second, she thinks that Tyene will argue further, but the arrival of someone else stops her. This new woman is short like Tyene, but does not have her daintiness. She had dark black hair that lays in thick ringlets past her shoulders, unblemished olive skin, and a mischievous face. She wears a dark maroon dress that clings tightly to the curves of her chest, but flares out to flow around her legs.

“It appears I am late,” Arianne pouts, “now, what have I missed?”

Tyene speaks up, “I was just asking our lost sister Mara some questions. So that we may know her better.”

Arianne claps her hands together, before racing to where she is seated. Arianne leans down to embrace her. The hug takes her by surprise, Arianne’s hold is strong and she can smell her cousin’s spicy perfume. “Well, I can’t wait to get to know you better.” When Arianne pulls back, she is met with a cheeky grin.

She turns from Arianne’s smiling face and surveys the women around her. Tyene sits with perfect posture and looks appropriately interested. Obara sits mostly slouched over the table and looks amused. Ashara is looking directly at her and she can see her misty eyes. She feels a tightness in her throat and her own eyes begin to water. “And I look forward to getting to know all of you.”


	9. Jon

Life at Castle Black is worlds away from what his life was like at Winterfell. It’s not just the environment or the work, but the people. At first it had been more of the same, split groups of nobles and commoners with each thinking he was part of the other and neither accepting him. It was the armorer, Donal, who had changed that for him. Donal had been the one to tell him that he had been the one pushing others away. That he had come to the Wall and had acted as every noble had acted towards him. It is embarrassing that it took Donal dressing him down for him to realize what he was doing, but he is grateful that the man took the time to sort him out.

It had taken a while to convince the others that he was more like them than they had originally thought. As much as he hates the man, he thinks it is Ser Allister’s treatment of him that truly shows the others that he is not worth more than them. The man treats him the same as, if not worse than, the other boys which gives them common ground. It’s also Ser Allister’s terrible teaching that allows him to bond with his brothers through swordplay.

He had thought himself a decent teacher, up until he tried teaching Sam. Sam hadn’t taken to the sword at all. He had thought that maybe it was because Sam’s teachers had refused to adjust for him. Vorian had once told him that all men were different, that just as different men could have different wants, different pasts, and different skills, different men could learn differently. He had thought that, because Lord Tarly was so insistent on turning his son into what he wanted him to be, maybe Sam needed a different type of teacher, but nothing he does makes Sam better at wielding a sword.

Still, his inability to teach Sam doesn’t keep them from becoming friends. Along with Grenn and Pyp, the four of them become fast friends. He’s never really had friends before. There was Robb and Arya and Bran, but they were his siblings so it wasn’t the same. These people have no obligation to him, no reason to want to get close to him, but they do anyway. The closest thing to friendship he had before was his bond with Vorian.

The man had watched out for him in a way that felt different from the way the rest of the guard had treated him. He had felt like Vorian had cared about him as his own person, not just as Ned Stark’s bastard. The man had gone out of his way for him in a way no one else had. But the man had always felt more like a mentor than a friend. He couldn’t run around and prank people with Vorian, and he felt the need to make sure the man was impressed with him.

He couldn’t say he had a mentor among the men of the Night’s Watch, but there two men he was close to. His closeness to Donal was a given. The armorer was honest with him and interesting. Aside from Donal, he had grown surprisingly close with Maester Aemon. He wasn’t sure what it was that drew him to the maester, but he enjoyed the time he spent with the man.

As part of their training, the trainees were rotated between chores to see what they had aptitude for. His favorite chore was being able to go out into the woods with Ghost so that they could hunt, but right below that was being in the smithy with Donal and being in the library or rookery with Aemon.

Sometimes, in the smithy, Donal would tell him stories about the different places he had seen. The armorer had been a part of King Baratheon’s army and had been across Westeros because of it. It reminded him a bit of speaking with Vorian. The hedge knight had gotten to travel across the continent because of his line of work and, after his excited asking, had told him about it. Vorian had spoken about Dorne with such fondness that he had wondered if the man missed his homeland. Donal shows no such fondness when speaking about the stormlands. He thinks it has more to do with Donal making his peace with where he is and less to do with him not liking his homeland.

His time with Aemon is much quieter. Not only does the maester have a softer voice but the maester spoke with purpose. Aemon wasn’t the type to speak just to fill the air and only spoke because he had something important to say. Most of their time together was either spent in companionable silence or with Aemon giving him important advice. Something about the man made it feel like he was his grandfather or, considering how old he thinks the man is, his great grandfather.

Today he’s been assigned to help Aemon in the rookery. The maester didn’t have to be there while he worked, but more often than not the maester was there alongside him. He wondered if this was something Aemon did with all the new recruits or if there was something special about him.

As he circles through the stairs leading towards the rookery, he can hear the squawking of the ravens. Maester Luwin had told him that ravens were smart creatures who were capable of learning. He’d never seen a raven taught anything, but these ravens definitely knew when it was time for them to be fed.

He opens the door and the noise becomes louder. The sound of their squawking is joined by the flapping of wings and the slight jostling of their cages. Their beady eyes all turn from looking at Maester Aemon to look at him. He is willing to admit that he can see intelligence in their dark eyes.

“Hello maester.”

“Hello Jon.” The maester’s voice is whisper soft, so he’s surprised he hears it over the noise of the ravens.

When the maester doesn’t say anything else, he begins to feed the birds. He sticks his hand in the bucket and pulls up bloody chunks of meats to toss into the cages. He’s long gotten over the disgust he felt over handling the bloody chunks, but he still tries to handle the meat as quickly as possible to keep his hand from becoming a bloody mess. A wave of semi-silence follows him as the birds stop their screaming so that they can eat.

He tries to shake the blood off his hand before stepping towards Maester Aemon’s side. The maester has set out message tubes and sealed letters. There are eight shiny metal rolls that the maester carefully begins to fill with his assortment of letters. The black wax of the seal stand out against the off-white of the paper, an instant identifier of who was sending the request.

“What are these for?”

The maester continues to carefully pick up a letter, put it into a canister, close the canister, standing it up so that all the filled tubes were lined up, before moving on to the next letter. “They are requests to the crown and all the Great Houses so that they may send more men.”

“Is the Night’s Watch in need of more men?”

“The Night’s Watch is always in need of more men. But there is something happening beyond the Wall that we are ill prepared for. There are many things we need, but more skilled men is the most pressing.”

“Skilled?”

“Trained individuals. People trained as leaders, as knights, in metalworking, in reading, in numbers, and other useful skills. We don’t have the resources or the time to teach all these skills, so it would be nice to receive men who have already acquired these skills.”

It was his trust in Maester Aemon that keep him from being embarrassed about asking this question. “Why those skills in particular?”

“Leaders for positions of power and in case of war. Knights are trained as soldiers, also in case of war. Metalworkers for our equipment. Literate men for our records and letters. If we had more men, farmers and the like would be useful for the Watch’s sustainability, so that we don’t have to depend on buying necessities as much.”

He thinks over the maester’s response. After arriving at the Wall. He had experienced a rude awakening about the type of men who manned the Wall. When he had agreed to join the Watch, he had imagined that everyone here would be like his uncle and had been sorely disappointed to see more criminals than knights. After Donal had lectured him, he had come to think that men could rise above who they had been before if given the time and opportunity. But the opportunity he had considered was martial prowess, he hadn’t considered that the Night’s Watch may need more than soldiers.

After the ravens finish eating, he helps the maester ready the appropriate ravens to send the letters. He opens the cage and quickly grabs hold of the loose raven. He holds it still, while the maester attaches the cylinder on its leg, before releasing it out the window. They repeat the process seven more times before the maester dismisses him from the rookery.

A cold wind cuts straight through him the moment he steps outside. He spent his whole life in Winterfell, but even it’s cold doesn’t compare to the Wall’s cold. _Is it colder here because of how far north we are or because the Wall is made of ice? If it’s because of the north how much colder does it get once you’re beyond the Wall?_

He heads down towards the common hall. It is a bit too early for dinner, but the hall is always kept warm. He cast his eyes around the yard to see if he could catch a glimpse of Ghost. After people had gotten accustomed to the direwolf, he let Ghost out of his pen in the stables to roam as he liked. During the day, Ghost would head south and return after hunting had filled his belly.

It seemed Ghost wasn’t back yet. No direwolf approached him as he walked and he could not spot his companion in the banks of snow around the castle. Sometimes it felt like he could _feel_ where the direwolf was. When he felt like Ghost was far from him he chalked it up to his imagination, that he was only guessing that the direwolf was far from him because when Ghost was near he was always alongside him. But sometimes he _knew_ Ghost was approaching him long before he could see or hear the direwolf. He didn’t know what that meant but it was harder to wave away that knowledge like he could the gut feeling that Ghost was far away. He couldn’t feel Ghost right now, but it had been a couple of days since he last felt him so he figured he was due.

When he arrived in the common hall, Grenn was the only one of his friends who was already there. At first he had thought Grenn slow, but, after getting to know him, he had realized that Grenn was just very straight forward. Grenn wasn’t one for plots or guile, he was the type to say what he means and means what he says. He found Grenn to be comforting, he never had to worry about ulterior motives or whether his friend was secretly upset with him because Grenn was too upfront for that.

He joins Grenn at the table he’s sitting at and the two of them wait for the rest of their friends. Pyp is the first of their friends to arrive and Sam is the last, though Sam does arrive right before dinner starts.

With Pyp at the table, every meal feels like an event. Pyp just had a natural showmanship to him. He knew how to get other people talking, he knew how to make jokes without making people mad, he knew hundreds of stories, and he knew when to be quiet and let other people talk. Grenn was very patient about all the jokes they made about him. Halder had a deadpan type of humor. Toad had an annoying but contagious laugh that always set the rest of them off. Sam tended to be quiet but his quips were terrifyingly precise whenever he did make them.

After dinner he, Grenn, Pyp, and Sam head into the yard for training. He usually pairs Grenn with the other two because, even though Grenn is a much better fighter than them, Grenn has incredible self-restraint and awareness. Grenn was very good at engaging his opponent in a way that wasn’t too difficult for his partner, while still giving them a challenge. He’ll then watch from the sidelines to correct their form as they sparred.

He pairs Grenn with Pyp first. Pyp had helped Bowen Marsh with taking stock today, which meant he had done little physical labor, and he wanted to ask Sam some questions. He watches the spar for a bit before turning to Sam. He proudly notes that Pyp has started wielding his sword like a sword, not a dagger, and that Pyp has learned how to use his speed to his advantage. Once he’s satisfied that the two of them will be fine without him, he sidles up to Sam’s side.

“Sam,” the other boy startles, “I wanted to ask you some questions.”

Even though they have been friends for a while, Sam still looks a little wary at his request. “Go ahead.”

“You told me about how your father tried to make you a fighter,” Sam gives him an embarrassed nod, “but were you taught any other lordly skills?” Maester Aemon’s words stick in his head. Sam didn’t have to be a ranger or a builder, he could be a steward who could attend to the Watch’s other needs.

Sam stares down at his hands when he answers. “My father focused on making me a warrior. When it didn’t start well he put all his effort into trying to make me one.”

“What about a maester? Surely your maester taught you some things.”

Sam flinches at the mention of a maester, but he does respond. “He did. He taught me my numbers and letters. He taught me some history and didn’t tell my father about all the books I would borrow from our library.”

“So you read a lot.”

“I did. I read all the books in my father’s library. I read some of them multiple times over.” Sam looks down at his hands in a way that screams shame. “You can escape in a book. You can be somewhere else. Be someone else. You can be strong and brave and cunning… and not who you are.”

He means to ask Sam something else, but he feels an awareness come over him. It feels like he’s suddenly remembered something he had forgotten, except the thing he’s remembered is entirely new information. He’s struck by the awareness that Ghost is moving towards them. He turns his gaze south and begins scanning the space for Ghost. It takes a moment, but he does spot the direwolf skulking towards them, almost hidden in the drifts of snow. His muzzle is clean, so he assumes the direwolf decided to wander before coming back to them.

He crouches down and sticks his hand out for Ghost to bite and shake. After their little ritual, he sinks his fingers in Ghost’s coat and ruffles his sides.

While Sam tended to be afraid of everything, he wasn’t afraid of Ghost. Sam sticks his hand out and doesn’t flinch when Ghost’s cold, wet nose presses against his fingers. He can’t help but wonder what gives Sam the confidence to interact with, what everyone else considers, such a fearsome beast when talking to other people seems so difficult for him. Ghost settles between them and begins to lick at his paws.

He considers trying to ask Sam more questions but it feels like the moment has passed. Sometimes talking with Sam feels like he’s walking on ice. Some conversations are fine but then he’ll say something that causes Sam to freeze up. Most of the times it’s obvious, he’ll as a question about Lord Tarly or his past trainings and Sam will grow ashamed, but other times he has no idea what caused the tension in Sam.

He focuses his attention back on Pyp and Grenn and has to fight a groan. It seems that they noticed he wasn’t paying attention and have decided to goof off instead of properly sparing. The two have given up all illusions of proper swordplay and are instead dancing around each other trying to tap the other with the flats of their sword. He would bet that Pyp was the one to goad Grenn into messing around. Grenn could be stubborn, but Pyp knew exactly what to say to get Grenn to do what he wanted him to do.

“Alright, break it up.” The pair turn to look at him. Pyp has the shit eating grin of a man who knows he was doing something he wasn’t supposed to but doesn’t care. “If you’re feeling confident enough to mess around then you should have no problem facing off against me.”

Grenn reaches out to pat Pyp’s shoulder as the smaller man lets out a loud groan. Still, Pyp doesn’t complain and does raise his sword in preparation when he walks over. He takes a moment to stretch and take stock of Pyp. He thinks they did do a bit of proper sparing before devolving into fun, so he decides to no be too harsh on Pyp. He settles into a combat ready stance and waits.


	10. Jaime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter that took forever to write because I was sick and had to make some timeline decisions.

“I’ve never ridden a horse before.” He doesn’t think Rhaenys needs to clarify that point. It’s obvious from the awkward way she sits atop the sand steed that she’s never been on a horse before. She had been able to mount the white, pale-gray splotched gelding like she had been riding horses her whole life, but now that she was on it he could tell that she felt unsure.

“You need to relax. If you’re too nervous you will make Mist nervous. And a nervous horse is a dangerous horse, especially if you end up underfoot.” Obara keeps one hand on the reins and lifts the other to place it on Rhaenys’s leg. The gelding shifts its legs, but it looks like idle movement more than anything else. Rhaenys bobs her head and he can see her chest expand and contract as she tries to breath out her uncertainty.

Once Rhaenys says she’s relaxed, Obara begins to walk Mist around the fenced training area. When Obara had heard that Rhaenys had never gone riding before, the woman had been appalled. The older woman had only waited for Rhaenys to finish breaking her fast before whisking her off towards the stables.

He scratches at his cheek through the fabric covering his head. Ashara had made him a part of the castle guard and had assigned him as _Mara’s_ official sworn shield, which meant he had to dress like the rest of the guard. The head wrap was an optional part of the uniform but Ashara had insisted on him wearing it as frequently as possible for disguise purposes. She told him that Prince Oberyn had not been subtle in his dislike for the Lannisters, that his coloring gave him away for a Lannister, and that she didn’t want rumors about a Lannister who was welcomed in Sunspear to reach ears up north. The head wrap wasn’t that bad, it kept the sun from burning his face, but he wasn’t used to having something covering his face all day.

Once Obara thinks Rhaenys understands what she is supposed to do and has sufficiently adjusted to how the horse moves under her, she lets go of the reins and steps off to the side to watch how Rhaenys does on her own. She does pretty well, she keeps her back straight and the stirrups on the balls of her feet, but she does fidget with the reins a bit too much. It’s not bad considering this is her first time. She does get more and more confident as she circles the training area.

Obara’s teaching style is world’s away from his old master of horse’s teaching style. For all of Obara’s gruffness with him, she is mostly compliments and reassurances in her teaching. That’s not to say that his teacher had been harsh or rude, he had just been a man who really only spoke to correct his mistakes. He also notes that Obara’s corrections are detailed, she doesn’t just tell Rhaenys that she’s doing wrong, she also carefully advises on what Rhaenys should be doing.

They spend a good part of the morning engaged in the riding lessons. He’s impressed with how long Rhaenys lasts. Horse riding was surprisingly muscle intensive, but it appears her combat training gives her the stamina to last it out. Rhaenys smoothly eases Mist from a trot, to a walk, to a stop in front of him. Her smile is wide and crinkles the skin around her eyes. “Pretty good for a first timer,” her voice is incredibly smug.

“Think you can dismount on your own?”

The grin slips off her face. Obara had run her through mounting and dismounting practices, but that had been a while ago. She shifts a bit and looks down at her hands and her legs. He looks over at Obara and she gives a nod for him to go ahead. He climbs over the fence, careful to not spook Mist, and guides Rhaenys through where she should put her hands and what she should do with her body. Obara steps over to take Mist’s reins and he stands by to help Rhaenys dismount.

Her dismount goes well, up until her feet hit the ground and her legs buckle under her. He swoops forward to keep her from crumpling onto the ground, catching her around the ribs and pulling her away from the horse. It only takes a couple of seconds for her to get her legs back under her, but even after she does she just leans against his chest, tilting her head up to try and look at him. “I think I got overconfident.”

“It happens to the best of us.” Obara eyes her student over and, once she confirms that Rhaenys is okay, she calls over a stable hand to take Mist.

He pushes Rhaenys into standing, which she reluctantly does. “I can’t feel my legs,” she says as she stretches her legs and stomps her feet.

Obara steps over to Rhaenys and throws her arm over the younger woman’s shoulder. “It can happen when you are a novice and ride too long. The only way to prevent that feeling is to ride more.”

“I don’t think I can ride anymore today.” He’s surprised by how she can sound both sincere and petulant at the same time.

“Not today. But maybe tomorrow and the day after that. The only way to grow stronger is to train.”

Rhaenys bobs her head. “Tomorrow.” She then disentangles herself from Obara and waves for him to follow. “But right now, I think I am in need of clean dress and something to drink. Ser Erwin, let’s go.”

He falls in step with Rhaenys, at the standard half an arm’s length away. There was an oddness to being a guard again, but also a comfortable familiarity. Though maybe that ease came from who he was guarding. With all the measures of secrecy they had taken, he did not have great cause to worry about Rhaenys’s safety and she was sensible, she had rarely given him reason to worry. There was peace in guarding someone who he felt was worthy of protection.

He follows Rhaenys as she heads towards the Tower of the Sun. After being settled into living here, Rhaenys had insisted on scouring every inch of the castle. She had dragged him through the Old Palace and had commented on the architecture, tapestry, and paintings. She had pointed out all the things she thought were Rhoynar design, asked if he recognized anything as clearly Westerosi design, identified what objects came from Essos, and speculated on items she thought may have been a melding of both Rhoynar and Westerosi design. She had been charmed by every corner of the castle and even he had to admit that Sunspear did have a certain beauty to it. His father, and teachers, had not spoken graciously about Dorne and its people, but he had long realized that his father was not as objective as he had once, childishly, believed.

Once they reach Rhaenys’s room, he stands guard outside and waits for her to get dressed. Balerion comes around the corner, completely ignores him, and begins to meow at the closed door. He scoops the cat up off the floor and holds him to his chest. He’s thankful for all the layers the Dornish guard wear, because Balerion immediately tries to stick his claws into his shoulder, he can feel the cat’s claws catch and pull at the fabric. “Out of all the cats in the world, how is it that we were stuck with a hellspawn like you?”

“Don’t talk to him like that. He only antagonizes you because you antagonize him.”

“What a vicious cycle we find ourselves trapped in, Dread.” He turns to dump the cat into his ward’s arms. Balerion looks at him for a moment longer, before turning to cuddle into Rhaenys’s arms.

“Where are your quarters?”

“Nearby, about a hallway away. I’ll show you where, in case you need to find me.” They walk side by side on the short walk to his quarters. It’s farther from hers than he’d like, but the apartments were large and he had no reason to doubt Ashara’s claim that this was the closes available apartment.

He stops in front of the door to his room and is surprised when she just pushes past him and steps in. She pushes Balerion onto her shoulders and begins to survey his space. He stays in the open doorway, watching her, for lack of anything better to do. “They aren’t that different from mine. The coloring is different and the furniture is positioned differently, but not all that different.” She stops talking and then turns to look at him expectantly. When he doesn’t do whatever she was trying to will him to do, she frowns and waves her hand expectantly. “Come in and close the door behind you.”

He steps into the room and, when she keeps waving him forward, approaches Rhaenys. Once he’s next to her, she reaches into the folds of her skirt. There is an awkward moment of fiddling, where he considers asking what’s happening, but then she pulls what she was looking for out of her skirt. “I figured I would give you this since it’s yours and I have no use for it.”

How she managed to hide Brightroar in the folds of her skirt is beyond him. He briefly considers where he is going to put the blade, before taking it and hiding it in his bedroll with his travel equipment. “How did you manage to hide that so well?”

“Pleating uses a lot of fabric. I secured it under where I was going to put the pleats and then adjusted until they looked passable.”

“Right. Well, what are you going to do now?”

“Arianne asked me to meet her in a solar near the throne room. It should be late enough for that.”

“Lead the way.”

He follows her through the halls of the Tower of the Sun. They pass by paintings of the past rulers of Dorne and their consorts. Past Nymeria and, as Rhaenys had pointed out to him, the three men who had been her husbands. Past a silver haired woman with violet eyes, who he vaguely remembers as one of the brides who united the seven kingdoms. And lastly of Elia’s parents, Prince Doran, and the woman he assumes to be his wife.

They pass just close enough to the throne room that they can see the golden wash of light from the stained-glass dome above the room. Sunspear’s throne room had a warmth to it, one that the Red Keep’s throne room could never hope to emulate. He can’t help but wonder if King Baratheon and his sister have made an attempt at it anyways.

Arianne is waiting for Rhaenys when they arrive. Arianne sits at a table covered in papers and food. The woman distractedly eats at some fruit and doesn’t notice them until Rhaenys clears her throat. “Cousin.”

“Mara!” The woman jumps up to embrace Rhaenys. Balerion tosses himself from Rhaenys’s shoulders and settles himself in a patch of sunlight before he can get caught in the embrace.

As she gestures for Rhaenys to take a seat, he can feel her eyes on him like a physical force. Of all the, present, Martell daughters Arianne was the one he had interacted with the least in the week or so they had been here. Tyene had, subtly, cornered him and had asked him all manner of questions. Rhaenys had told him the lies she had told and he had deflected with charm and vague answers, but eventually the woman had left him alone and she hadn’t interrogated him since. Obara had pulled he and Rhaenys aside and had just asked about him upfront, after that she accepted him as _Mara’s_ guard; it didn’t mean she liked him, only that she accepted him. _Now that I think about it, I don’t think Arianne has even seen my face._

“What are all these papers for?” He positions himself besides the door and watches as Rhaenys peers over the things on the table.

“Well I was thinking that we should throw a feast to celebrate your arrival.”

“You plan those?”

“My father put me in charge of feasts and frolics,” he’s sure that even Balerion picked up on the contempt in that statement, “so, as long as my uncle agrees, I can plan and throw feasts here in Sunspear.”

“So, why did you want me here?”

“To know what you like. I can’t throw a feast in your honor and then serve food that you don’t like.”

He stops paying attention once the two women start to plan. He has no interest in party planning and he already has a decent understanding into what Rhaenys likes. Instead he focuses on Balerion and the sounds around them. He watches Balerion lick at his paw and listens to the ambient noise of people moving through the halls.

He isn’t sure how long he stands there, but his ears do pick up on, what sounds like, someone approaching the door. There was something too purposeful about sound of this person’s gait, so he shifts to check the door.

He’s both surprised and unsurprised to see that it’s Morgan coming down the hall. The young knight seemed to serve as Ashara’s right hand and had no problem running errands for her.

“Are you looking for Mara?”

“Yes, though I was also looking for you. Lady Ashara would like to speak with you both.”

“Do you know what for?”

“She received news that Prince Oberyn is due back today before she sent me off. She likely wants to introduce you to the prince, before he learns about you from someone else.”

He hums in response. “How soon does she need us?”

“Soon, but not urgently. Why?”

He looks into the room and sees that Rhaenys and Arianne are enthralled in whatever they are talking about. “To let them finish what they are doing. Are you only to deliver the message or to escort us to her?”

“She’s in the same solar as when you first arrived. If you need it, I can escort you, if not then I’ll be on my way.”

“I remember.”

With that Morgan nods and leaves. He slips back into the room and notices that Balerion is the only one paying attention to him. The cat stands from his patch of sunlight to start winding around his ankles. Eventually, the cat decides to sit next to him and, also, watch Rhaenys.

They don’t watch for long, even though he hadn’t been paying attention, he was right in thinking this wouldn’t last much longer. Arianne dismisses Rhaenys and then they head out of the room. He relays Morgan’s message to her and she leads them to Ashara’s solar. Once they arrive, Rhaenys knocks and patiently waits for Ashara to call them in.

When they step into the room, they find Ashara bent over a book. The older woman waves for them to sit, but he decides to remain standing. “There is no need to be nervous, Ser. Stories of my husband’s hotheadedness are greatly exaggerated.”

He pulls the fabric off his face. After wearing it for most of the day, the heat of his breath was beginning to bother him. He considers making some sort of remark about Prince Oberyn and danger, but before he gets the chance Rhaenys speaks up. “Hotheadedness?”

“Oberyn has mastered making calculated decisions look impulsive. He has also purposefully inflamed rumors about his temper so that foreign lords will treat him a certain way.”

“Did you actually need a word or was that just an excuse to get us into this room?”

Ashara shoots him a flat look, but she doesn’t appear offended. “My word to you is that you should choose your words carefully when explaining yourself.” The look she gives Rhaenys is decidedly warmer. “Feel free to pick up any of the books in the room while you wait.”

Never one to ignore a book, Rhaenys lets out a rushed thank you before darting to look at one of the bookshelves in the room. Once he sees that Rhaenys is sufficiently distracted, he moves to stand next to Ashara. Even though he knew that Rhaenys was engrossed in her book, he still pitches his voice low to keep from drawing her attention. “Barring the obvious, is there anything I should avoid mentioning in front of the prince?”

Ashara respects his attempt at discretion and also keeps her voice low. “The obvious?”

“Princess Elia and her… manner of passing.”

“Oberyn will ask you about that, though it would be best to wait until he asks. I’m sure you’ve noticed that I have not asked you how you saved Rhaenys during the sack. Oberyn will not do you the same courtesy. He’ll want to know how you did it, why you did it, and why it was only her. Whatever answers you give, you need to make sure he believes them.”

He’s still whispering with Ashara when someone opens the door to the room. He saw Prince Oberyn once, during the tourney of Harrenhal and he feels like the man hasn’t age much since then. The prince is still tall and well-muscled, with a dark, full head of hair and the same intense eyes.

It’s only because he was facing the door, that he manages to see the way Oberyn’s expression changes; from passive, to intrigued, to suspicious, before settling on an obvious cheery facade. The prince’s smile is much too sharp and shows too many teeth for it to be considered anything but threating. He stifles the urge to shoot back with his own smarmy grin, but he does make a conscious display of moving away from Ashara.

“Ashara, I know I encouraged you to get your own paramour, but when I encouraged you I thought you’d have the good sense not to bring a Lannister into our home.”

“Peace, Oberyn. There is something you need to know.”

“That you’ve let a stray cat into the house?” Still Oberyn steps into the room and closes the door behind him. Once he steps in, he catches sight of Rhaenys, sitting still and watchful. She’s enough to distract the prince from him.

Oberyn’s gaze darts between him and her, like he’s knows there is something he should be putting together, but he can’t quite figure out what that something is. Rhaenys tips her head up, confident, even though she has every right not to be.

“I heard of the appearance of another bastard. A daughter from Essos, that my wife has already accepted as mine. Except I kept track of the women I laid with, kept track of any bastards who may have taken root and it feels unlikely that I missed one. So why is it that my wife has allowed you and this Lannister in.”

Rhaenys lifts her finger to point towards him. “Not _a_ Lannister. He is Ser Jaime Lannister. And I am not a bastard.”

It’s enough for the pieces to click in Oberyn’s mind. At her words, Oberyn looks like he’s seen a ghost. His face is pure shock and disbelief and the barest hint of suspicion. He can see that the man wants to believe, but he’s too shrewd to allow himself to believe too quickly.

“You’re the right age. You have the right look. But how do I know you aren’t some girl the Lannisters have found to placate Dorne?” With every word, the prince steps closer to her. There is no missing how he tilts his head to get a better look at her.

He’s impressed by Rhaenys’s resolve, by how she doesn’t cower in the face of Oberyn’s questions. “Fifteen years is a long time for a con that would have been just as effective fourteen years ago.”

“It’s also a long time if you are who you claim to be. My niece would have been safe in Dorne, so why wait so long to come here?”

“As long as Robert Baratheon is alive I am not safe.”

“He is alive.”

“Not for long. I have seen his death, like I saw the death that claimed my mother and brother. Baratheon will die, gored by a boar before the year ends.”

Oberyn stops once he is standing in front of Rhaenys. He kneels and gently, reverently, touches her face. “You look so much like her,” he says, whisper soft. “Prove to me. Prove to me you are her daughter. Tell me something he could not have told you.”

Rhaenys reaches up and grabs his forearms. She has kept up the veneer of confidence, but he can see that she is nervous. She knows that this is important and is terrified of messing up. In the same whisper soft voice, she says, “My mama wrote letters to her brothers. She wanted them to know she was safe. But one time. One time she let me sign one of them. She sat me in her lap, put her hand over mine and guided me through writing my name. She left me in the chair when she went to get sand to set the ink. I got excited, planted my hands on the table and put my thumb right on the s of my name. She said it was charming and sent it anyway.”

Oberyn lets out a shaky exhale before pulling Rhaenys into a hug. He can hear the quiet sound of Oberyn saying something but he can’t understand what is being said. Oberyn is still holding Rhaenys when he turns to look at him. “How?”

“Elia summoned me in the middle of the night a couple of days before the sack. She asked me to take Rhaenys and hide her in the White Sword Tower because the girl had had a nightmare. A nightmare when death scaled the walls of holdfast to take her mother and her brother. I took her because Elia asked me to, not because I believed in the dream.”

He can tell that Oberyn does not like his answer. He had lived with the torture of knowing he could have saved them if he had believed and Oberyn was sure to recognize that. Whatever the prince is thinking he doesn’t get the chance to say because Rhaenys says, “Do you believe that Robert will die? Run through on a hunt?”

And it’s obvious in Oberyn’s face that he doesn’t. And it makes Rhaenys’s true question obvious; how can Oberyn expect Jaime to have believed in the dreams then, when Oberyn doesn’t believe in them now.

“Later we will speak more in depth on this, but right now I ask you; did you know what your father had planned?”

He tries to imbue as much sincerity as he can into his words. “When I last saw them, I thought no harm would come to them. I didn’t… my greatest regret from that day is that I did not protect them.”

“Do you think your father called for their deaths.”

He hesitates. This was a question he had asked himself dozens of times. Something he had spent days pondering over, something he had lost sleep on. “I don’t know. But I would not put it past him. To him, their marriage was a slight and my father was not the type to let slights go unpunished.”

Oberyn nods, his words confirming something the prince already believed. “I will never forgive your father for what he has done to my family. But you have returned with the impossible and for that I, and all of Dorne, will always be in your debt.”


	11. Arthur

If he’s being honest with himself, he never thought he’d be summoned into the solar by Robb. He was aware of the inevitability of Robb becoming Lord of Winterfell, but he hadn’t considered that he might still be here to see it. A part of him had always assumed that something would have happened by then, that he would have had a reason not to be here. _Maybe something should have happened by now. Maybe you should have done something instead of just waiting._

He, consciously, pushes the thought out of his head once he’s standing outside of the solar. He can hear the quiet murmur of talk and he wonders who else Robb had summoned. The messenger had given him no clues into why Robb wanted him, only that he wanted him as soon as he was available. He gently raps his knuckles against the door and waits to be invited in.

He’s not all that surprised when Theon opens the door, not only was he Robb’s friend but Robb had come to rely on the Greyjoy more since having a lordship thrust upon him. The serious look on Theon’s face leaves him feeling unsettled. The boy was known for smiling through life and to see him without one was foreboding.

“You arrived faster than I had expected. Have a seat, Vorian, we’ll begin talking once Maester Luwin arrives.” Robb sits in his father’s chair and has an assortment of papers out in front of him. He’s pretty sure that desk has been covered in paper every time he has been in here.

They don’t have to wait long for the maester. Luwin bustles in with his hands full of grey sealing wax and his robes fluttering behind him. Luwin sets the supplies on the table before moving to hover near the edge of the desk. The maester’s nervous energy sets him even further on edge.

“Vorian, in preparation for what’s to come, I am naming you the next captain of the guard.”

Of all the reasons he expected to be summoned for, this was not one of them. “Pardon? In preparation for what’s to come? Do you expect something to happen to Hallis?”

“I have received word from my mother that father wants us to man and fortify Moat Cailin. He also wants word sent to the Manderly’s so that they may prepare White Harbor’s defenses.”

“Why does Lord Stark expect an attack?”

“Likely in retribution. Mother has taken Tyrion Lannister hostage for sending a catspaw to kill Bran.”

It takes all his strength to keep from rocking forward in his chair. “Lord Tyrion sent the catspaw?”

“That’s what my mother has told me. And she is confident enough in her accusation to take him to the Eyrie to be imprisoned.” Robb looks him over thoughtfully. “You don’t think Tyrion sent the catspaw.”

“It just seems odd to me. He struck me as a smart and calculating man and the attempted assassination was… not that. And then, after hiring this man to kill Bran he decides to go farther north instead of heading south with his family. Not only does he go farther north, but then he comes back to Winterfell knowing that Bran is both alive and awake. It just doesn’t sound like something a smart man would do.”

Theon is the one who responds. “It doesn’t matter now. Lady Catelyn has already taken Tyrion hostage. The damage has been done.”

Theon doesn’t know how right he is in that. Regardless of how Lord Tywin felt about his youngest son, taking Tyrion hostage was a slight against the Lannister name. A slight the man wasn’t likely to take lightly. He still remembers what it was like to be in the Kingsguard during the final stages of that man’s tenure as Hand. King Aerys had been so paranoid about Lord Tywin and his intentions that he refused to meet with his hand unless the whole Kingsguard was present. _Though maybe Aerys was right in some of that paranoia. Tywin allied himself with the rebels by sacking King’s Landing and having the royal family killed. Tywin has already proven he will do whatever it takes to ensure his family’s survival._

“Will you be warning the northern lords of the potential of war?”

“Not yet. If word gets out that we are assembling our banners it could give the Lannisters the excuse they are looking for.”

“A wise decision.” While they have been speaking, Robb had been writing, what he assumed to be, the letters he was told to send. He quickly seals the letters before handing them off to Luwin. The maester quickly leaves the room, likely recognizing the urgency of those preparations. “Does that mean you plan to send Hallis south if war breaks out?”

“Theon, go tell Mikken that I want him to focus on making weapons and armor.” The Greyjoy nods an affirmative, before following the maester out. Robb adjusts some of the things in front of him before looking him in the eye. Robb looks tired, much more tired than a boy his age should look. “Theon thinks I’m making a mistake by making you the next guard captain.”

His answer isn’t a response to his question, but his question had been a formality anyway. “Why’s that?”

“By making you captain I am forced to leave you here. If war breaks out, he thinks I should take you south, make you one of my generals. You’re one of the best swords we have. You have the charisma needed to lead men into battle. I know you’d be a valuable advisor.”

Robb’s last statement catches his attention. “An advisor?”

Robb sends him a wry smile, before growing serious again. “If war breaks out, I plan on heading south. On leading the charge.” Something must show on his face, because Robb adds. “I’ve also gotten word that father was injured. That his leg was broken after falling off his horse.” He can’t help but find the claim suspicious, he had known Ned to be a skilled rider. “He won’t be able to lead men into battle and we can’t ask our banners to go to war without having a Stark among them.”

“Who sent word that Lord Stark was injured.”

Robb moves some papers around until he finds the one he was looking for. “A Maester Pycelle claims that father was found by the city watch, and brought to him for treatment.”

He remembers Pycelle, a man who had been serving the crown longer than he had been alive. The maester had been a difficult man to read. Pycelle had presented himself as a straight-forward, quiet, and somewhat hesitant man, but he was almost positive that it was just an act. He had never been able to figure out what it was, but he was sure the man had his own secret agenda. “And no word from Jory?”

“No, which I also found concerning. Still, until we receive Jory’s word about what happened to father, we have little reason to doubt the maester’s words.”

“Have you told your brothers?”

“No. I do not know how I would tell them. The maester’s words make it seem like father was not gravely injured and I would hate to worry them unnecessarily.”

He lets the matter lie. He has no advice for Robb and he can see the merit in both options. “Have you told Bran that he may become the Stark in Winterfell?”

“No. This is all in case we go to war. And while whether or not we go to war is out of our hands, there are some things that don’t need to be set in motion until we know for sure.”

“Another prudent decision.”

“So I hope.” They sit in silence for a moment. Robb had not dismissed him yet and it feels inappropriate to undermine his authority when the boy was so clearly stressed. “Vorian, I am leaving you in Winterfell because I trust you to protect my brothers. It’s true that you would be a great help in the field, but I also believe you would be the best at protecting them with the few men who will be left here. I also think your council will serve Bran well. He is young and has not received the same training as I have, but he is thoughtful and learns quickly.”

_It seems that this is my life now. Protecting Starks as others go off to fight wars._ He pushes the intrusive thought out of his head. “Considering Winterfell’s location, it would be difficult for anyone to reach and siege the castle.”

Robb looks uncertain for a moment, like he wasn’t expecting to be questioned. He hadn’t questioned, not really, but he had spent enough time around lords to know that being anything but deferential could be interpreted as dissent. After that second of uncertainty, Robb schools his face into his lordly mask. “That may be true, but I will not be taking unnecessary risks with my brothers’ lives. Someone needs to ensure my brothers’ safety and I am entrusting that responsibility to you.”

Robb had only been a lord for a handful of months, and yet he had already mastered speaking like a lord. _Though maybe that is too vague. He speaks with the same earnest, seriousness as his lord father, not the contemptuous, derision of my lord brother._ “As you command.” He has no real reason to start picking fight and, even if he did, he’s not in the mood for it anyway.

Robb nods at him, more weary than authoritative. “You are dismissed.”

He stands and leaves. He passes by Theon in the halls, coming back from his task. The boy nods at him, but remains as serious as when he first saw him.

When he steps out into the courtyard, he is immediately greeted by the sight of Bran riding his horse. Bran is talking his horse, Dancer, through loops around the courtyard. Bran sat tall in his high-backed saddle, held secure by the straps along his legs and torso. _Tyrion is the reason this is happening. Tyrion was the one to give Maester Luwin the blueprints for the saddle. The one to suggest the type of horse Bran would need. There is no way Tyrion sent the catspaw after Bran._

Joseth stands to the side. The new master of horse had done a good job of training Dancer, but Bran was too important to leave unsupervised. Hodor was also there, excitedly saying his own name every time Bran passed by him. And to the side was Summer, sleeping in the snow drifts. The direwolves had been a part of Winterfell long enough for everyone to have adjusted to them. At this point, even the horses could stand moving alongside the wolves, so much so that they could go on hunting trips with Robb and Grey Wind.

Grey Wind happened to be an impressive hunter. The direwolf’s kills were obvious from the markings, but what was most impressive was Grey Wind’s controlled carnage. It was easy to assume that the direwolf would ravage his kills, but every kill showed restraint. Grey Wind did what he had to do to kill his quarry and nothing more.

For all of Grey Wind’s restraint, for all the direwolves’ training, there is no forgetting that they could be terrifying beasts. All the direwolves had grown large enough to rival regular wolves and Luwin claimed they weren’t done growing. Aside from being large, the direwolves had also proven to be impressive in different ways. He had seen Grey Wind run down elk, Summer sulk through the halls as though he was a shadow, and Shaggydog outsmart servants to sneak snacks.

With a gentle touch and confident words, Bran brings Dancer to a stop in front of him. Bran beams down at him from his perch. He hadn’t seen the boy this happy since before his fall. He pulls a smile onto his face and lifts his hand to rest it on Dancer’s neck. “How are you feeling?”

“Good. How do I look?”

“More gallant than any king I’ve seen.”

Bran peers down at him suspiciously. “How many kings have you seen?”

_Two, and one would be._ “Enough.” He rubs his hand against Dancer’s neck to bring attention back to the horse. “Tell me, how does it feel to ride again?”

“Odd at first. I didn’t have as much control as I was used to. And I had to learn how to manage her differently, but I’ve gotten used to it. I wish I could go on a ride. A true ride outside the castle walls.”

“Have you spoken with Robb?”

“No.” Bran looks suddenly bashful. “I don’t want to bother him. He’s always so busy now.”

“You should do so,” _before you lose the opportunity to,_ “I’m sure Robb will make time for you.”


	12. Rhaenys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss the days where I had three chapter backlogs instead of now where I'm holding on to one with the skin of my teeth.

There was something about sword fighting that she loved. Maybe it was because she had lived in Braavos, where she would watch Bravos dance on the Moon Pool under the light of the stars. Maybe it was because she had learned the craft and knew how difficult it was to master the skill. Or maybe it was because she had grown up on the stories of knights, stories where great evils could be brought down with the edge of a blade. So, when she was walking back from her riding lessons, alone because her uncle had whisked Jaime away to speak with him, and heard the familiar ring of steel she couldn’t help but try and find its source.

She, eventually, stumbles across the source of the sound in another part of the courtyard. She finds a training yard, surprisingly empty considering the coolness of the day. The only people present are the two men circling each other in the partially fenced training space.

She recognizes one of the men fairly quickly. Morgan has his short hair tied back and is wearing simple leather armor, but it is obviously him. The other man she doesn’t recognize. This other man is about Morgan’s height, if not a slight bit taller, and he is wearing similar leather armor. His hair was left unbound around his head and brown, just shades away from being blond, strands glimmer in the sunlight. She leans against a part of the fencing and settles to watch.

They must know each other well because their spar looks more like a dance than a fight. They have the liquid compatibility of two people who know how the other fights. Every thrust is adeptly deflected. Every feint is calmly ignored. Neither of them give much ground, but any that is gained is quickly lost. She’s enraptured by their delicate balance, waiting to see who will falter first.

She can see the slip. The two of them have their swords raised, locked in a standoff, when Morgan lets his attention slip. She thinks he may have finally noticed her, his eyes straying from his partner, and that is all it takes.

The other man reaches past Morgan’s guard and grabs the pommel of Morgan’s sword. There is a flash of steel, some quick arm movements, and then the brunette is holding Morgan’s sword to the side while his own blade points at Morgan’s chest. It is a quick, blink and you’ll miss it, maneuver, impressive but risky. She can’t resist clapping at the captivating display. It had been an impressive fight, one even Jaime might have been impressed by. Morgan surrenders and motions for them to end their spar.

The pair of them approach her. As they step close she can see the glisten of sweat on their faces. They must have been at it a while, because she doesn’t think it’s hot enough for sweat. She notes that the unknown man has a very distinct look to him. She was right in guessing that he was slightly taller than Morgan, someone else taller than her but shorter than Jaime. The man has the golden tan skin typical of Dornish men, thick eyebrows that are significantly darker than his hair, bright blue eyes, a sharp nose, and a strong jaw that is highlighted by the light scruff of his beard.

She had propped herself next to their supplies. Morgan softly greets her while the other man reaches down to grab a waterskin. “Mara, what brings you out here?” Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the bob of the other man’s throat as he drinks.

“I heard the ringing of blades and had to find their source.”

The stranger finishes his drink and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. He motions to hand Morgan the waterskin, but Morgan ignores it. “Mara, this is Daemon Sand, the Bastard of Godsgrace. Daemon, this is Mara Sand, Prince Oberyn’s lost daughter.”

She and Daemon smile at each other. She makes sure to keep her smile contained and polite, carefully balancing between excited but not eager. Contrary to hers, Daemon’s smile is dangerous. His smile is confident and charming. It softens his face and revels adorable dimples hidden in his cheeks. She wonders if Daemon is aware of how much his smile heightens his attractiveness and if he’s used it to his advantage.

“I take it you know each other well.”

“We do. We both severed as squires under Prince Oberyn. How could you tell?” Daemon’s voice was deep and featured a strong Dornish accent.

“Your spar. You two moved like two people who know each other well.”

Daemon arched one of his eyebrows and asked, “Are you interested in swordplay?”

“I am.”

“Would you like to learn?”

She bites down on the urge to tell them that she already knows. Instead she widens her eyes slightly and asks, “Are you offering?”

Daemon grins at her and Morgan gives her a searching look. “I am. All the Sand Snakes know how to wield some sort of weapon, so I see no reason why you shouldn’t. Normally, I’d tell you that Morgan should teach you, since he’s the better sword and I’m the better spear, but he seems distracted.” At that Morgan shoots Daemon an unimpressed look.

Still, she isn’t going to let the opportunity pass her by. She quickly focuses Daemon’s attention back on her, asking about equipment and other preparations they may need. They do what needs to be done and Daemon walks her to the center of the training space. She lets him walk her through the basics; where to place her feet, how to hold her sword, how to arrange her body, and how to do basic movements. She makes sure to fumble appropriately. Lets him move her feet, correct her grip, and a dozen of other little things. He complements her on being a natural and her preening at his praise is not entirely false.

After a short while, something she thinks would have been too short for someone who had actually never held a sword before, Daemon draws his own blunted longsword and gestures for her to take a swing at him. She puts up a token fight, something that would be appropriate from a true beginner, and lets Daemon talk her out of it by claiming that she would learn best from sparring, not instruction.

She takes a moment to collect herself. She takes a breath and thinks back to what she has already seen of Daemon in combat. She doubts Daemon will use the same moves on her, but it gives her a frame of reference for what she should expect from him.

She takes a few, purposefully awkward, testing shots. Daemon is generous in his reactions, moving slowly to try and show her how an enemy would react. He also takes slow swipes at her and talks her through what she should be doing. She lets the charade last for a bit, long enough for Daemon to speed up into something that is still somewhat slow, but more appropriate for a spar.

Once she grows tried of their exchange, she speeds up. It is obvious Daemon wasn’t expecting the change. His eyes widen and he struggles to keep the new pace. He takes a number of taps to the torso and doesn’t land any successful hits on her. Eventually, she spots her opportunity. Daemon overextends himself, he lunges forward on a stab that she quickly sidesteps. His hands are low enough, so she brings the pommel of her sword down over them, while simultaneously stepping into his space, knocking one of his knees out from under him, and, in a move she learned from her Bravos teacher, pushing him over with her body. Daemon manages to keep a hold of his sword, but lands with a heavy thud on his back. Before he gets the chance to stand, she steps on his dominant wrist and swings her sword over to point at his throat.

Her blood sings in her veins and she can’t resist the smile that curls over her face. Daemon lays panting under her and she watches as his surprised face gives way to a smile. “I yield,” he says as he lets go of his blade and raises his, unpinned, palm nonthreateningly. She sheathes her blade and offers him her hand. He takes it, allowing her to pull him up. Once he’s standing, Daemon sheathes his own sword and grins wildly at her. “You already knew what you were doing.”

Before she gets the chance to answer, a voice she doesn’t recognize speaks from the same direction she remembers Morgan being. “She did know what she was doing and she quite effectively beat you down, Ser Daemon.” This woman’s voice is so sultry and elegant, that it takes her a moment to register what the woman said. She feels heat buildup in her cheeks at the knowledge that Daemon is a knight and that she acted in a way that might be improper. Still, Daemon’s responding laugh makes her think he’s not that bothered.

Daemon nudges her in that direction and begins walking towards Morgan and this new woman. She is tall and willowy, dressed in an expensive looking yellow dress that flatters her form. The woman’s dark hair is pulled to the side in a braid that rests on her shoulder. Her skin is a lighter olive tone that contrasts nicely with the darkness of her features. The widow’s peak on her forehead leads into thin, dark eyebrows that frame large, glittering eyes. Her lips are painted a dark wine color and are currently quirked up in a half smile. Daemon calls out, “Lady Nym, it is a pleasure to see you.”

When they reach the pair, both Nymeria and Morgan give her appraising looks. She wonders what conclusions Nymeria may be making about her, but she’s more worried about what Morgan is thinking. Morgan was the one exposed to the _oddest_ parts of their ruse, but he hadn’t said anything about it. She can’t decide if it’s because Morgan is trusting of his mother or if it’s because the man is patiently keeping watch until things make sense to him.

She reigns her posture into something appropriately polite. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“And a pleasure to meet you, little sister. It seems that even though you were not raised here, you have been raised like a snake.”

The blush she fought against earlier tries to resurface on her face. She hadn’t known that the Sand Snakes were all trained in weapons and she probably should have been more careful with her secrets, even if this secret was less important than some of the others she kept. Daemon keeps her from having to think of a response to that. “When did you arrive?”

“Last night. How could I miss a feast in honor of my lost little sister?”

“Do you know if Sarella is coming?”

Nym gives a slight shake of her head. “She is not. She had business in Oldtown she cannot step away from. I’m sure she would be here if she could.”

She doesn’t know enough about Sarella to be offended by her absence, instead she trusts that Nym is telling the truth and resigns herself to meeting Sarella some other time. “A shame. Still, I look forward to meeting her.”

“Is she the last of our family you have to meet?”

“Her and Quentyn.” She had met Trystane and all of Ellaria’s daughters together. Since they were younger, they had been nowhere near as suspicious of her as the older Sand Snakes had been. Dorea and Loreza had instantly liked her because she had played with them. She had won Trystane, Elia, and Obella over by telling them stories of her time in Essos and giving them the impression that she was worldly.

“You may have to wait longer to meet Quentyn. He likes it up at Yronwood and, with the feast in a few days, if he isn’t here already then he is unlikely to come.” She had begun the process of removing some of the training equipment she was saddled with, so she nods her head and hums so that Nym knows she was listening. Once she’s done, Nym extends an arm towards her. “If you have a moment, I’d love to get to talk to you.”

She links her arm with Nym’s. “Of course,” she says and prepares herself for another round of questioning.

\---

The subtle sound of a harp fills the hall and brings up vague memories of her father. When Arianne had asked her what kind of music she like, she had considered suggesting something else, but, no matter how conflicted she felt about her father, the harp was one of the last emotional tethers she had to him. She had vague memories of her father strumming his harp and feeling at peace because of the sound. The music now is similar enough to stir the same feeling inside her.

The beginning of the feast had gone rather quickly. Prince Oberyn had introduced him as a lost daughter and had then introduced her to all manner of people. She meets a surprising number of lords and ladies considering she had thought this feast an excuse for Arianne to throw a party. She does her best to remember people’s names and where they come from.

The food is good, spicy and flavorful in a way she loves, but she finds herself eating very little of it. She’s never attended this kind of event before. Arianne and Nym talked her through all the proper etiquette rules; Ashara and Ellaria had reassured her that people would be forgiving of any missteps; Oberyn and Jaime had told her that she didn’t have to worry about that because of who she was, but she is painfully aware that she doesn’t have the experience, or knowledge, needed for courtly activities.

She floats around the room. Her cousins introduce her to specific people they are close to; Arianne and Tyene introduce her to a Ser Andrey Dalt and Nym introduces her to Ladies Jeyne and Jennelyn Fowler, but she does try to meet people on her own. She drifts around and talks to people. She also listens in on all sorts of gossip, but most of the names they mention mean nothing to her.

It isn’t until she come across a circle around a minor member of House Wyl that she finds gossip about people she has heard of. After he introduces himself, he tells her that some of his cousins have ridden north to participate in the king’s tourney for his new Hand, Eddard Stark. She’s heard a bit about Lord Stark. Jaime had told her that Lord Stark had been the one claim the throne for Baratheon, but also that he had been appalled by the murder of her mother and brother. He had also told her that Lord Stark was known for being and honorable and upright man, though also quick to judge.

“Though, I’m sure King Robert is regretting throwing his hand such a big tourney with the trouble the Starks are causing.”

“What trouble have the Starks caused?”

“Have you not heard?” The man’s tone is exaggerated. An obvious ploy made to engage his listeners, to make himself seem more important than he is. “Lady Stark has taken Tyrion Lannister hostage. Confronted him in an inn and whisked him away north.” The man leans in as though they were conspiring to commit some crime. “I’ve also heard that there has been some raiding in the riverlands. No doubt Lord Tywin’s work, the man has no issue slaughtering innocents to punish others.”

The people listening all sound their agreement. She half listens as they continue talking, but it seems they have shifted into different gossip of people she doesn’t know. She wishes this person had known why Lady Stark had captured Tyrion. Jaime had spoken fondly of his brother. He had described him as smart and curious, more of a scholar than a warrior, so what could Tyrion have done for the Starks to want to hold him hostage? Once she’s sure she isn’t going to more information on the situation, she excuses herself and wanders away.

From there, she goes to sit at an abandoned table. She scans around the room for people she knows. She spots Oberyn talking to some Lady she can’t place, Ashara and Ellaria are chatting next to him, Tyene and Arianne appear surrounded by friends, Nymeria was sitting with the Fowler twins, Obara was drinking with Ser Daemon, and she couldn’t spot Morgan or Jaime. She knew Jaime was one of the guards placed in the room but, with their head coverings, she didn’t know which one is him. Not that she could talk to him anyway.

Her watch is interrupted by someone seating themselves at her table. She pulls a smile to her face and turns to look at this new arrival.

The man who sits with her looks to be older than her, but not by much. He’s clean-shaven, with a sharp nose, and a well-defined face. His hair hugs the side of his face, a pale silvery color except for a thick, dark streak of black. Dark eyes watch her and while they look black, the flicker of flame shows her that they are actually dark purple, “Hello.”

“Hello.” His voice lacks the typical Dornish accent. If she had to guess, she would say that he was from farther north, near the Dornish Marshes.

She extends her hand and says, “I’m Mara.”

He fits his hand under hers and presses a kiss to her knuckles. “I am aware,” his voice sounds amused. “I am Ser Gerold Dayne.”

Him saying he’s a Dayne excites her. She had wanted, but hadn’t gotten the chance, to ask Ashara about her family. “Oh! Like Ser Arthur Dayne?”

The change is instantaneous. The smile falls from his face and he looks incredibly annoyed. “Aren’t you from Essos? How is it that you know about Arthur Dayne?”

She makes sure to pick her next words carefully. “I am. But I have always been interested in stories from Westeros. The story of Arthur Dayne is one of many I have heard.”

He hums, but before they get the chance to awkwardly try and continue their conversation, she hears someone call her name. She looks up to see Obara waving her cup in her direction. She quickly dismisses herself and walks towards her. Obara offers her a drink and gestures for her to sit.

She nurses her wine while listening to Obara regale her with stories. Other people approach to join in on the drinking and chatting. It’s nice, until it’s not. It becomes more talk about people she doesn’t know and places she’s only vaguely heard of. She makes sure to have all the appropriate reactions, smiles when she’s supposed to, laughs when she’s supposed to, but every reaction is a little more draining than the last. _I wonder if this would have been different if father hadn’t damned our family. If being raised for these types of situation would make them less tiresome, or if I would still find them just as exhausting._

She quietly slips away from the group. When that isn’t enough, she heads out of the hall. She remembers there being a balcony nearby and decides that air may make her feel better. Before she can reach the balcony, she’s interrupted by a hand on her arm.

When she turns, she’s surprised to see that it is Ser Gerold Dayne. On his face is a placid smile that would have made him handsome, if it wasn’t for how obviously fake it was. Once she’s fully facing him, she cocks her head to the side in question.

“I beg your pardon over how I acted earlier.”

“It is alright.” He still hasn’t let go of her arm.

“If I may ask, how is it that you’ve heard of Ser Arthur?”

She tries to think of a lie while also wondering if it would be rude to pull herself free. “Um, there was. Ah, I once met a sellsword who had claimed to have served alongside him.”

“Is that so,” the hand on her arm clenched, “and what did he tell you?”

A part of her wants to bear her teeth at this man. “He told me-“

“Gerold let her go.” Morgan’s voice sounds firm from nearby them. She isn’t sure if it’s Morgan’s command that makes Gerold let go or if Morgan’s words remind him that he’s still holding on to her arm, but Gerold does let go. Morgan and Gerold look at each other and the low simmer of animosity is obvious to her.

Gerold takes a breath that she can almost see run through his body. His posture loosens until he seems relaxed and, if she hadn’t just seen it, it was like he had never been coiled in frustration to begin with. He turns to her, says, “If you’ll excuse me,” and walks away. She watches the man walk away, before turning to look at Morgan.

His eyes are focused on the hand she rubs against her arm. It doesn’t hurt and she doesn’t think it will bruise, but she can still feel the press of his touch even though he is gone. She considers thanking Morgan here, but the halls still feel too small. She decides to continue towards the balcony, waving for Morgan to follow her.

The night is cool as she steps out. Her hair has been pulled tight into braids that have been pinned to the back of her head, but she is sure that the breeze pass through would be enough to drag them along. Only a handful of seconds pass before the sound of Morgan’s footsteps join her outside. “Thank you, for that.”

“It was inappropriate for him to corner you like that.”

“He did seem rather… perturbed.”

There is a brief pause before Morgan informs her. “Gerold thinks himself born to the wrong branch. He thirsts for a chance at the title of Sword of the Morning, though he could never claim it.”

She’s aware that the Sword of the Morning is only partially a hereditary title. Only Daynes had claim to the title and its respective sword, but not every Dayne had right to it. Only Daynes who had proven to be worthy could claim the title. But she wasn’t supposed to know that.

“Why were you not in the hall?”

“I imagine for the same reason you weren’t. Feasts involve a lot of talk about people other than yourself, some important some less so. A moment of air is good for rejuvenating patience and observance.”

“Observance?”

“Aye. Careful watch of those around you. Some of those in the room with you are your allies. Some are your enemies. Most are indifferent. Listen to what they say and they will tell you what they are.”

Observance she knows. Observance had helped her choose her friends, safely traverse foreign streets, and talk her way out of trouble. Observance had given her knowledge no tutor nor text could ever teach her. She should have known better than to think that skill would no longer be needed just because she found herself inside castle walls. She looks up towards the moon, slowly giving parts of herself until only a sliver remained, and basked in her light. “I think I am feeling properly rejuvenated.” She takes one last breath before heading back inside.


	13. Arthur

He had never cared for the adage that dark wings carry dark words. Ravens carried whatever message they were saddled with; be it informative, lies, celebration, or death. He believes the superstition came from stoic lords who only obligated themselves with sending letters when they needed assistance, when the worst had happened and they could not handle the situation by themselves. He saw no reason to attribute something to superstition when it was obviously men’s folly. Still, it was times like these where he understood why every raven was watched with wary eyes.

When word finally came of what caused Ned’s injury, it isn’t from Jory. Ayln informs them that Ned was injured in a retaliatory attack by the Lannisters that killed Jory, Wyl, and Heward. As though the people of Winterfell were water, he could see how rage and anger rippled through them. He didn’t think the people of Winterfell wanted war, but it seemed like that was where they were heading.

Then came word of the King Baratheon’s death. Killed from an injury while hunting a boar. That news had felt unbelievable. The very idea that the man who had brought the end of the dragons, had died; not in battle, not assassinated, not because he had been overthrown, but because he had been careless while hunting felt like something out of a fever dream or a mummer’s jape. Still, no matter how outlandish it sounded, it was the truth.

The next bit of news that came to Winterfell was hard to find the true in. Suddenly all the travelers from the south came with varying words over what was happening in King’s Landing. Some claimed that there had been slaughter in the Red Keep; that the Lannister’s had killed everyone unloyal to them, that all Northern men in the keep had been slaughtered, or that the Northern men had rioted and caused a melee that ended in their death. Word of Ned’s whereabouts where just as unclear; some said his head was rotting on a pike, that he was trapped in any number of dungeons across the crownlands, that he had fled with or to some Baratheon brother and planned to crown them as king, that he was trying to rush his way north, or a number of other plausible but also outlandish stories. Word about the Stark daughters followed the same pattern and it was impossible to find the truth in any of the other stories people told about Catelyn and Tywin.

While they were still trying to parse through the rumors, a raven arrived from King’s Landing bearing Ned’s seal. The poor creature had no idea of the terrible news it bore. He had been in the room with Robb when the letter arrived, accompanying Bran who had asked him to be there when he tried to convince his brother to let him out for a ride. The boy hadn’t gotten far in his appeal when the maester stepped into the room, improper in a way that was concerning.

“Maester Luwin, what causes your urgency?” Robb’s voice is calm in a way befitting of a lord.

The maester does not respond immediately, instead the man pulls a bronze tube from his, seemingly endless, sleeve and hands it to Robb. “This just arrived by raven.”

Robb removes the letter from the tube and the sigil of House Stark shows clear in the wax. He wastes no time in unsealing the message and pouring through its contents. He sets his hand on Bran’s shoulder as the boy fidgets uncomfortably. With each line Robb reads he seems to grow more and more angry. Still, when Robb finishes the letter he calmly looks at everyone else in the room.

“What does it say,” Bran asks. His voice is impressively calm considering how mad Robb seems to be.

Robb glares down at the piece of paper in his hands. “It’s a letter from Sansa. She says Father conspired at treason with the king’s brothers. King Robert is dead, and mother and I are summoned to the Red Keep to swear fealty to Joffrey. She says we must be loyal, and when she marries Joffrey she will plead with him to spare our lord father’s life.” Robb crushes the sheet of paper in his fist, his knuckles turning white from the strength of it. “And she says nothing of Arya, _nothing,_ not so much as a word. Damn her! What’s wrong with the girl.”

He doesn’t really hear Bran’s answer, but it sounds less sure than his question before. The words sound nothing like Sansa. She was a smart girl, but words like conspire and fealty were not ones she would use. Words from another’s lips was a sign that Sansa was a hostage. While Robb was upset at the lack of mention of Arya, he felt that her lack of mention hinted that the crown did not hold her. But just because she was not a captive, did not mean she was safe, _or alive._

Regardless, he was sure this letter meant the start of a war. Beneath Sansa’s false words was a threat, swear fealty to the crown or put Sansa at risk. Not only were the Starks too proud to take such a slight, but they also knew that Ned would never take part in treason against Robert. Robb would gather his banners and march south.

A part of him is aware that Ned’s worst fears have been realized. The man had avoided the south because he had been terrified that if he went south he would not be able to return north. Treason was a serious accusation, one that usually resulted in the accused’s death. Ned’s fate did not look good. He was also aware that the man had been terrified of losing his family to the south and that seemed just as likely as his death.

“Surely you could give command to someone else.” Bran’s boldness catches his attention. The boy leans forward, partially leaning on the desk in front of him, and pleads with his brother.

“I don’t have a choice. The Starks have never sent their banners to war without being among them.”

“Are you going to tell Rickon?” The words almost sound like an accusation and Robb reacts like he’s been struck. Rickon’s worry over being abandoned had only strengthened with time. He had grown sure that neither of his parents were going to return from the south and no one’s reassurances would convince him otherwise. Hearing that Robb was also going south would not end well.

Robb looks down at the letter clenched in his hand. There is a crinkling of paper as he unclenches his hand and lets the summons fall on the table. “I will tell him,” he says softly, “I will tell him.”

There is a moment of silence as the reality of the situation sinks in. War was brewing; Robb would raise his banners and leave for the south and surely Lady Stark would ask her family for aid and the riverlands and the Vale would also stir. Bran would become the lord in Winterfell, leaving only him and Rickon as the only Starks in Winterfell.

And it also seemed like the Stormlands would go to war against the crown. The letter accused Ned of conspiring with the king’s brothers. For whatever reason, Stannis and Renly did not think Joffrey should inherit the crown. Even if the brothers had not committed treason, the accusation would be enough to draw the Baratheon brothers into war.

“Vorian take Bran back to his quarters. Maester Luwin prepare the supplies so that I may start penning letters to our Lords.” Bran sends his brother a look and Robb lets out a tired sigh. “I will tell Rickon after we eat. There is no need to tell him at this very moment.”

Bran nods his assent and motions for him to lift him. He lifts the boy and takes him out of the room. Usually Hodor was the one to carry Bran around, but after an incident with a doorframe, Maester Luwin had thought it best to have others carry Bran, at least until the goose egg on his forehead went down.

Bran seems to have gained a healthy amount of weight since his awakening. The boy had been skin and bones when he first woke up, and while he was still light Bran had more heft to him now. While it seemed like Bran would never regain use of his legs, it was nice to see that the rest of his body was not suffering. At Bran’s request, he takes the boy to his room with the promise that he will come back for him when it is time to eat.

True to his word, Robb waits until after they eat to tell Rickon that he is going to go south. As expected, the boy does not take the news well. Rickon screams, cries, begs and pleads. He pulls at Robb’s clothes and bashes his fists into Robb’s body. He doesn’t listen when Robb tries to explain the situation, when he tries to soothe him, or when he tries to be stern with the boy. He doesn’t accept anyone else’s words of explanation or any attempts at comforting touches. Still, nothing he does convinces Robb to not go.

Eventually, Rickon tires. The little boy’s eyes are red, his cheeks are splotched with tears, nose running, breath comes out in harsh pants, and he looks slightly sallow from dehydration. There is something terrible about how the boy crumples into himself, the fight slowly draining out of him.

It’s now that he approaches the boy. Rickon had a right to be angry, a right to scream and cry. So instead of trying to stop him, instead of trying to comfort or console, he had let him be. And it seems to have served to his advantage. He doesn’t say anything as he approaches, he just steps forward and places his hand on Rickon’s shoulder.

The boy whips around, ready to be angry, but when their eyes meet Rickon just looks at him, exhausted. He thinks this is when the futility of his plight finally sets in, because his eyes water once again and his lip trembles, but this cry is silent. Rickon reaches up to grab at the edges of his cloak and he kneels in front of the boy.

Rickon lunges forward and clings to his neck. He can feel the wet drip of tears against his neck. He rubs his hand against the boy’s back and whispers, “What do you need?”

He feels Rickon’s hands clench in his clothing. “Shaggydog.” His voice is ragged and hoarse.

He picks up Rickon and looks around the room, when no one stops him he leaves. Their walk through Winterfell is quiet and somber. Rickon sniffles against his neck, but has stopped crying.

When they enter the godswood, the smell of nature greats them. Leaves crunch under his foot and the rustling of branches sound from above them. There is something about the godswood that always lends itself to stillness and tranquility. He walks aimlessly through the space, trusting that Shaggydog will find them.

Shaggydog does find them, stepping out from the wood like a large, hunkering shadow. The direwolf’s emerald eyes watch him as he sets Rickon down. The boy throws his arms around Shaggydog’s neck but doesn’t dissolve into tears again. Instead, Rickon calmly runs his hands though the direwolf’s pelt, brow furrowed in thought.

“Are you going?”

Maybe this is the reason Robb isn’t making him one of his generals. “No, I am not.”

“Will you leave?”

He considers lying for a moment, to give an empty reassurance, but the thought tastes sour on his tongue and Rickon was too perceptive a child to not notice a lie. “I have no plans to.”

Rickon stares at him as he parses through what the response truly means. The boy isn’t even four-years-old but he has already learned to be wary of people’s words, to have to pick apart what was said to know what was meant. Eventually, Rickon nods accepting what he said, hopefully understanding that there are circumstances that force you to do things you don’t want to do.

How Rickon felt about Robb leaving varied on the day. He was never okay about it, but some days he would be quiet and petulant, other days he was angry and wild. On quiet days Rickon would engage in silent protest. He would refuse to eat, not speak to his brothers, and refuse to follow most directions. On angry days Rickon would engage in violent protest. He would kick and punch, scream, and act out. While Rickon was dangerous in these moods Shaggydog was more so.

He had tried to sooth Rickon during one of his reckless outbursts, he had been worried the boy might hurt himself, when Shaggydog had lunged out to bite him. He has two feeling about the event. On the one hand, he considers himself lucky. He had been helping train the new potential guard and had been wearing vambraces because of it. Shaggydog’s teeth had been caught up in his sleeve, but he had felt the slight pressure of teeth scraping against metal. If he had not been wearing armor he has no doubt that Shaggydog would have drawn blood. On the other hand, he did not feel concerned about the event. Shaggydog’s bite had snapped Rickon out of his fit, he had advocated for the direwolf not being caged after an incident in the crypts and it seemed like Rickon was worried this may affect that decision. The boy had called Shaggydog to him and had apologized, as best as an almost four-year-old could. But he had also been unconcerned because he had seen Shaggydog bite through bones, how the direwolf could split a deer bone in two with one good snap, so he knew that the direwolf had not been trying to seriously maim him. It had seemed more like the bite of a stressed animal trying to set boundaries than of a feral animal trying to cause destruction.

It clarifies that these aren’t tantrums, that Rickon isn’t acting this way because he is trying to punish people, but because the boy is scared. Maybe it’s because he is so young and the time his family has been away seems like so much more than it does to everyone else, but Rickon truly believed that he would never see them again. That they’ve been lost to some amorphous land that he doesn’t know. He wonders if the boy knows enough about death to believe that his family is dead and if this is Rickon’s expression of grief. _He’s the same age Rhaenys was when she died. Did she scream and cry about the injustice in the world or did she believe that her father would come back for her?_ _Did Elia tell her that Rhaegar was dead or did she push that off in the hopes that there would be a later? Did Rhaenys die still hoping that her father would appear and save her?_

He shares his revelation about Rickon with Robb and Maester Luwin, in the hopes that it will help them interact with the boy. It does help ease some on the tension with Rickon. Again, Rickon is still not okay with Robb leaving, but it does make it so that Rickon is better behaved when bannermen start arriving to the castle. As Winterfell grows loud and rowdy with the arrival of soldiers, Rickon and Shaggydog stopped acting out as they had before.

With the arrival of the bannermen, it became more obvious that war was inevitable. Northern lords from all across the north came to swear their men to the Stark cause. Some were loud and boisterous, others made all types of requests of Robb, some brought gifts, and others made scenes, but all of them tested Robb, each in their own unique way. From the look of all the lords who had sworn themselves to Robb, he had done well in passing those tests. Once Lord Umber was Robb’s man, he spoke his praises of the boy to anyone who would listen.

The day Robb left was a loud affair. Just about everyone in Winterfell gathered in the courtyard to watch Robb go. All the northern knights gathered to follow behind him, every servant in the castle was there to wish their lord farewell, and a large swath of the guard gathered to go fight south. It felt like the only one who wasn’t there was Rickon, locked away in his room because he didn’t want to see his brother go.

The people cheered as Robb rode away, looking gallant on his steed but also wild with his direwolf alongside him. Anyone who met him in the field would find him a force to be reckoned with. _But I had though the same of Rhaegar and he had died in the first battle he had fought in. He had entered the war too late, so while Rhaegar had been a skilled knight there had been no knowing how good of a soldier he was. I can only hope the same cannot be said of Robb._

Bran wears his sadness clear on his face. As the new lord in Winterfell, Bran would need to learn how to school his face into not showing how clearly he felt things. Like his older brother, he would have to learn how to face those who wanted to test him. There would be people looking to see how much they could get away with under his leadership and Bran will have to learn how to handle them. _Now that I think about it, it falls to me to be help teach him._


	14. Jaime

One of Rhaenys’s braids is beginning to unravel. When he had first seen her this morning, her hair had been weaved into two braids that sat draped over her shoulders. When he had asked her about it she had puffed her cheeks at him and told him that Dornish hairstyles were much harder to do on your own. That hadn’t been what he meant, when they had been in Essos she had mostly worn her hair loose or tied back away from her face and the change is surprising to him, but he can sense she was feeling defensive over her hairstyle choices so he didn’t clarify.

The braid isn’t unraveling because the hairstyle was poorly done. The braids had withstood her riding lessons, her sparing session, and the litany of other things she has done today. The braid is unraveling because she keeps pulling on it as she reads.

After the feast in her honor, Rhaenys had asked Prince Oberyn for information about the current state of Dorne. The prince had personally sat with her, with a map and markers of all the houses of Dorne, explained the state of affairs for each house, and asked Rhaenys to come up with her own conclusion about the current state of Dorne. It very vaguely reminds him of lessons he had once had with him father, back when he was still the heir to Casterly Rock, except the prince is much more patient than his father was and Rhaenys is a much better student that he had been.

These lessons don’t last long, because they don’t have to. Since the war, Dorne had experienced a prosperous and, relatively, conflict free period. Prince Oberyn had tried to raise Dornish banners is support of Prince Viserys after the end of the rebellion, but saw sense when Jon Arryn pointed out that Dorne has just lost a large number of men and would have to man the rebellion themselves, since Viserys had no men to contribute. The prince even admitted that he didn’t care about seeing Viserys crowned king, but that his grief demanded he act in some way.

After that lesson Rhaenys had asked for detailed information about the state of Westeros since they had been gone. This request hadn’t resulted in lessons, but it had resulted in a lot of paper. It seemed that Ashara had spent the past decade collecting information about Westeros for a historical book she planned on writing, which meant that Rhaenys was provided with a rough, annotated manuscript of that book, letters from all around Westeros, a full ream of paper filled with texts written by maesters, and a slew of scrolls that was relatively untouched. The whole assortment necessitates three tables and takes up a corner of the study.

He’s honestly a little appalled by the amount of paper Rhaenys was presented with. Obviously, the manuscript is the most important part of the bunch, but Rhaenys does pluck things out of the other piles to see where some information comes from.

On a whim, he has decided to read some of the things Ashara has written about the Lannisters. The only definitive things he knows about what his family has been through since he’s been gone, is that Cersei married Robert, his uncle Gerion died trying to reach Valyria, and Tyrion was recently captured by Lady Stark on unknown charges. Though Prince Oberyn had told him that he had heard said that Lady Stark claimed his brother tried to murder her son.

He’s reading about Robert’s reign as king, a surprisingly unbiased piece considering Ashara does not care for the man, which includes some information about his sister. He learns when all the royal children were born, he learns about some of the events the couple attended together, and what kind of projects the pair were patrons for. And, through a passing line, he learns that there are rumors of it being an unhappy marriage.

“How did she find out these types of things?”

Rhaenys looks up from her own section of the manuscript. “Between Maester Caleotte, Maester Myles, and Prince Oberyn they have vast connections to a number of maesters all across Westeros.” To emphasize her point she waves at the ream of paper.

“I can’t imagine Maester-“ he is about to say Maester Creylen but he has no idea if that man is still serving his family, “I can’t imagine the maesters serving my family would just hand over such scandalous information.”

“Does it have an annotation?”

“It does,” and, at her hand waving, he hands her the page. He points out the sentence and she furrows her brow as she reads it. She stands from their shared table, disturbing Balerion from where he was sleeping, and heads over to the table loaded with scrolls. It has been the table Rhaenys has referenced the least and its obvious by how she mutters to herself as she tries to find the referenced scroll.

He watches her shift around scrolls and bring some close to her face as she tries to find the one she wants, before she lets out a little sound of triumph and brings one to the table. She sits down, unfurls the scroll, and begins to read. He expects her to read it to him as she has done so many times before, she even opens her mouth as though she is going to do so, but she doesn’t say anything. When more silence passes, he asks, “What does it say?”

She looks at him for a moment, he watches as her fingers tense around the paper, and clears her throat. In the couple of seconds it takes for her to start talking, Balerion jumps onto his lap and settles down. “The first entry reads, ‘All reports claim that Cersei Lannister was excited for her wedding with Robert Baratheon, confirmed through direct interactions with the woman. Interactions with her the next day did not carry the same tone and she was noted to have been curt and agitated.’ Another entry reads, ‘The queen has continuously declined invitations to go hunting with the king. She has been observed spending those days with her cousin, Lancel Lannister, but no further information was gathered about her activities.’”

Rhaenys pauses and looks at him uncertainly. He can hear the creak of her chair as she adjusts and the movement of her throat as she takes an audible swallow. “Further down, it reads, ’The queen was seen with a bruise across her face. A maid assisted her in hiding it. It is unconfirmed who stuck her, but there are few who could do so without serious repercussions.’ ‘An inconspicuous cut-wife was seen in the holdfast. There were no rumors or gossip to be found involving a cut-wife. An attempt was made to contact the cut-wife, but she was found dead outside King’s Landing. The queen was one of the few women who reported feeling ill the day after the cut-wife was seen.’”

“Unhappy was putting it lightly.” He begins to pet Balerion for something to do with his hands. He didn’t know what he was expecting. News from Westeros trickled in slowly to Essos and he had never been one to speculate on how things might be going for his family. Even if he currently had mixed feeling on Cersei, it was upsetting to hear she had not done well. _Still, how did that information end up here?_ “Are all the scrolls like this?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only looked at two other scrolls and they didn’t deal with as… sensitive information.” Rhaenys looks down at what she had been reading a moment ago. “There is another scroll annotation here. I could pull it up and we could check?”

He nodded his head, any distraction would be a welcome distraction. As Rhaenys looked, he glanced at the page she had been reading. The current page seemed to be about his grandfather, another topic it should have been difficult for Ashara to get information on.

Rhaenys comes back with another scroll. She unfurls the scroll and immediately starts reading. “’House Clegane was raised to landed knight status after the first Ser Clegane saved the life of Lord Tyros Lannister from a lion attack. Not much could be learned about Ser Clegane’s son other than: he fathered three children and died in a hunting accident. Those three children are Gregor, Sandor, and an unknown daughter who reportedly died young.’”

A part of him refuses to believe that it was a coincidence that Rhaenys pulled this scroll, except he’s seen how rare scroll annotations were. There is no way she arranged for this to be the scroll she pulled when he doubts she even knew this scroll existed.

Unaware of his thoughts, Rhaenys keeps reading, “’Most of what was learned about Gregor Clegane is rumor. It is known that he was knighted by Prince Rhaegar,’” Balerion bites his hand as though slighted by the very mention of Rhaegar, “’and that he and his men are needlessly cruel, but everything else listed is rumor, said only in hushed whispers. He and Ser Amory Lorch are rumored to be the killers of the royal family. It is rumored that the death of his father and sister were not accidents, but that Gregor killed them. It is also rumored that his two wives did not disappear but were killed by him. There are also various rumors that servants who left to serve at Clegane’s Keep and were never seen again, also died by his hand.’”

He expects Rhaenys to stop reading, but she continues into the next entry. “’Sandor Clegane is known to have left Clegane’s Keep and pledged himself to the service of House Lannister, once his brother came of age. He is also known for rejecting the knighthood offered to him and for acting as Joffrey Baratheon’s sworn shield. The burns on his face are said to have been caused by his bedding catching fire in his youth, but what was seen of the existing burn is inconsistent with burns of that type.’”

Rhaenys lowers the scroll now that she’s done reading. Her face is blank and he can’t tell if it is purposeful or not. “Who do you think writes these?”

She taps her fingers against the table. “I don’t know. The writing is uniform enough that it could be one person, but also inconsistent enough that it could be any number of people following a template. What does this sound like to you?”

He recognizes that his answer doesn’t matter. It’s only a springboard for further conversation. “It sounds like information gathering.”

She bobs her head. The light in the room catches the purple in her eyes, momentarily revealing a carefully hidden secret. “And again, the question is who? This one is all rumor. Something you might have been able to put together when you worked at the docks or something I could have put together in Myr or Braavos, back when trying to find the truth in rumors was something I did for fun. But the other one, that one is impressive. That one has to get through Varys and a dozen other things to get here, carrying secrets someone could lose their head for knowing.”

“Makes you wonder how many of those,” he waves his hand over at the table loaded with scrolls, “are like that one.”

“Well, it’s a mystery for another time. It is growing late and I need sleep.” She stands from her chair and moves everything back to where it belongs. As he watches her put things away, he wonders if there is a reason Rhaenys makes it look like they were never here or if it is just a force of habit from her time as an apprentice.

Once she’s done, he stands up and hands her Balerion. She cuddles and coos at the cat while they walk down the hallways back to their rooms. They’ve been here long enough that the guards they pass only look at them with casual disinterest. _I wonder if that would be different if they knew what I looked like._

When they arrive at Rhaenys’s door, she sticks out her arm before he gets the chance to walk away. “One last question, one to think about as you go to sleep. Those scrolls are obviously important. The kind of thing enemies wish they had access to and the kind of thing you burn when things are looking rough. And yet…”

“And yet, they have let us see them completely unattended.”

“The question is why? And to what end?” Rhaenys already told him that she wasn’t expecting an answer, but he’s still bothered by how nothing comes to mind. They felt too innocuous to be a test, having been left there with no instruction and with so many of them being unimportant. It could be some obscure test, or it could just be that Ashara forgot that there was some sensitive information among them.

He does think about it as he lays in bed. He considers all sorts of combinations of whether this is a test or an accident and who could be involved in it. There were so many possibilities with Ashara, the Princes, and the Sand Snakes. There was also the question of where the information came from and who was in charge of consolidating it. He uses these questions to keep from thinking of the life Cersei has been living as he goes to sleep.

The next morning, Prince Oberyn sends a servant to summon them. While they are breaking their fast, the servant tells them to pack some belongings for a trip to the Water Gardens and to meet the prince at the stables. The two of them hurry through what’s left of their meal and rush off to gather their things. It shows how they are used to living when they both come out of their rooms with knapsacks instead of trunks.

The messenger hadn’t said they were immediately needed in the stables, but that tended to be the implicit speed in most of the prince’s messages. He and Rhaenys hustle through the castle and arrive at the stable in record time.

Prince Oberyn is waiting when they arrive. Horses are already prepped and ready for travel around him. Once they get closer, the prince approaches them. Prince Oberyn slings his arm around Rhaenys shoulders with a grin. “Are you ready to meet the Prince of Dorne?”

Rhaenys tilts her head curiously. The prince had told them that he would not take them to meet Doran until he had confirmed some things. He hadn’t told them what those things were. “What has changed?”

“King Robert is dead.” The prince pats Rhaenys on the back and steps back towards the horses. “We should go. The ride to the Water Gardens doesn’t take long, but I’d rather get there sooner than later.”

His tone leaves no room for argument. They load their things onto their respective horses and ride out of the castle. When he looks over at Rhaenys, he sees large golden eyes peering out from the satchel strapped to her side. A troop of guards forms around them as they ride. The people of Sunspear wave and shout as they ride past. The reaction speaks to Prince Oberyn’s popularity. He had heard that Dorne loved its youngest prince, but he had only seen such a similar, positive reaction to Prince Rhaegar, back before he had shattered the peace.

The ride to the Water Gardens is uneventful. The sands are still cool from the morning, but it whips up from their horses’ hooves into the air. The rest of the guard wear face covering that match his ever-present one, Rhaenys wears a veil across her face, and the prince doesn’t even seem bothered by the sand. As they get closer to the castle, they begin to see the sea to their left. The waves are calm and sparkling, unbothered by world around them.

There is little fanfare when they arrive. Most of the people here appear to be guards, servants, and children. The Water Gardens is a proper title for the castle, there are a number of fountains and pools in the courtyard. The breeze from the sea ruffles the leaves of the plants shading the courtyard and the breeze’s salty smell mingles well with the sweet smell of the oranges in the trees.

The children splashing in the water stop to look at them. A few of them are brave enough to wave but most of them just watch, like the servants and the guards. He sees Rhaenys wave at the children who wave at them, if she is nervous about what may happen it does not show.

After their things are settled with the servants and the guard who came with them scatters, a maester approaches them. The maester and the prince share a warm greeting before he informs Prince Oberyn that his brother is waiting for him further inside. The prince waves for them both to follow and walks them inside.

They find Prince Doran in a terrace guarded by a single, large guard wielding an longaxe. This terrace faces out towards the ocean and the rumble of waves fills the silence of the space. Prince Doran sat with his back towards them, in a chair framed by wheels. Prince Oberyn approaches his brother and they share quiet words.

He feels the guard’s eyes on him, likely waiting for any signs of aggression he may take against the prince. He keeps his hands away from his sword belt and his posture relaxed, he had nothing to prove here and recognized that this wasn’t the place for posturing. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Rhaenys let Balerion out of her bag. The murmur in front of them stops and he turns his attention towards the princes.

Prince Oberyn waves them forward. They sit down in the chairs on the other side of the seated prince. Prince Doran lacks the same presence that that Prince Oberyn does. Doran has the same dark eyes and full head of black hair, but his body is shapeless, his face is lined with wrinkles, and his expression reads serious. “Take off your face covering Lannister, you’ll have no need for it here.” He does as he’s told while Prince Doran turns to speak to Rhaenys. “Oberyn has told you that King Robert is dead. Has anyone else spoken to you about it?”

“I have only heard that he is dead, nothing else.”

“Tell me how he died.”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Robert died after being run through by a boar. It was a slow death, that took time but, even with that, there was no saving him.” She pauses for a moment. “I don’t know how she was a part of it, but Queen Cersei had a hand in his death. It was not an accident, but a murder.”

Doran looks at his brother and Oberyn nods his head. Doran lifts his hand from his lap and waves Rhaenys closer. The knuckles of his fingers are red and swollen, making them look like cherries. As she gets close, Doran reaches out and touches her arm. The man doesn’t say anything, he just looks at her with sad eyes before rising from his seat and embracing her. 

Over the crash of waves, he hears Rhaenys whisper, “Does that not hurt?”

Doran sits back down and squeezes one of her hands. “Some things are worth the pain. To think that a dream saved you.”

Rhaenys shakes her head. “My mama saved me. When I told her my dream she saw opportunities where I only saw death.”

Oberyn speaks up from where he has propped himself against a pillar. “Elia always had a gift for making the impossible happen. Which brings us to deciding on what plans we have for the future.”

“The King Joffrey has requested I go to King’s Landing to swear fealty to him. I will not go, for I am not in a condition fit for travel, but we must decide when we want to reveal you.”

He keeps his face carefully blank as he turns to look at Rhaenys. He knows she has no desire to be queen and no ambitions to sit on the Iron Throne. He also knows that she longed to live her life as Rhaenys Targaryen, not the secret lives she had been forced to live so far. _Westeros will not let her live as Rhaenys without the Iron Throne behind her_. “What do we know about the happenings up north?”

Oberyn hums. “We know that Lord Tywin and his forces are making war in the riverlands. I’ve received word that the Tullys are far outmatched in the upcoming confrontation. Lord Stark was arrested for treason, trying to deny the boy king his crown. The northern army is making its way south, likely to fight against Lord Tywin in the riverlands. Lord Renly was seen fleeing the city the night before Lord Stark was arrested and it is rumored that he is amassing forces in the stormlands, but to what end is unknown. There has also been movement in the Reach, but I’m still waiting for word back on what that may be.”

“Do we know why Lord Stark was trying to crown someone else?”

“We don’t. All we know is that he was trying to crown Robert’s brother instead of his son.”

He can see that Rhaenys is trying to piece things together. Regardless of what she wanted it was obvious this was a test.

While she thinks of a response, Oberyn says, “Declaring you now would put us in direct competition with the Lannisters. Which would give us common cause with the Starks and the Tullys.”

Doran counters with, “Declaring you later would give us the chance to gather more information. It would give us the time needed to know what the Baratheons and the Tyrells are planning. And it would give us the time to prepare our banners.”

“What of my aunt and uncle?”

“Daenerys was married to a Dothraki, _Khal_ Drogo, and travels with his _khalasar_. Viserys was killed by Drogo, crowned in liquid gold.” _How is it that Oberyn knows so much?_

Rhaenys draws his attention by shaking her head. “We should wait. Westeros is divided. Maybe, by declaring me, we could capitalize on that divide and have a chance at making me queen. Or maybe declaring me reunifies Westeros, by giving them a common enemy to fight against. Even then, no matter how declaring me goes, we still need time. Dorne may be the only kingdom that can withstand conquest, but it is not made _for_ conquest. Without the support of the Reach or the stormlands the Dornish army would be held at the marshes and nothing would happen.”

Oberyn pushes himself off his pillar. “It seems she is more like you than me, brother.”

Doran’s solemn expression breaks for the first time since they have arrived. The corner of the prince’s mouth tilts up in the slightest of smiles. “So it would seem.”


	15. Jon

He wakes up agitated. His body hurts from restless sleep and his mind struggles to rid itself of haunting blue eyes set into his father’s face. He had dreamt of being in the crypts back in Winterfell. There had been noise and chaos, but all he could see was the being in front of him. The being looked like Ned Stark with a dark line around his neck, like terrible bruising, and had rushed at him. The being’s hands had alternated between trying to wrap them around his neck and trying to tear at his face. Even though the being’s face did not change and he made no noise, it was clear to him that the thing was trying to kill him.

He feels Ghost shift beside him. The direwolf had not left his side since the incident in the Lord Commander’s tower and he was grateful for it. Ghost had been the one to inform him that the wight was there last time; any time he worried that another may be nearby, all he had to do was look at his calm direwolf and know that his fears were unfounded.

He shifts in his furs and accidently strikes his elbow against something. He grits his teeth and tries to keep from crying out as his arm burns with pain. He cradles his right arm against his body, waiting for the pain to pass. Maester Aemon had said that the burns weren’t serious and wouldn’t have any lasting effects on his ability to use the arm, but it hurt like nothing else he had ever experienced. From his fingers to just under his elbow, his arm was red and covered in blisters that required him to see the maester twice a day.

Aside from that there was little else for him to do. Lord Mormont had given him some time free of his duties, so that his arm may have time to heal, and while he had been grateful before, he was staring to go a bit stir crazy now.

The sound of steps caught his attention. He was the only one in Hardin’s Tower, everyone else had given him space because of Ghost and that hadn’t changed recently. He looks out the window in his room and notices it is too late for people to be casually visiting. He sits up in preparation for whoever is coming.

There is a knock on the door, quick and nervous. Before he gets the chance to ask who is there he hears a voice, quiet and awkward. “Jon, it’s Sam. Open the door.”

He can tell that Sam is anxious, so he hurries to open the door. The door swings open to revel Sam looking down the hallway. He pulls Sam into the room before the other boy loses his nerve. Ghost looks at Sam curiously, before laying his head back down to sleep. “Sam, what are you doing here?”

“I shouldn’t be here.” Sam tugs on his hands and paces a bit. He forces Sam to sit on the bed, both so that he may know why Sam is here and so that he doesn’t grow irritated by his obvious guilt.

“What do you need to say?”

“I…I was with Maester Aemon earlier. A letter arrived late and he asked me to read it to him.” Sam looks around the room like he expects someone to come out of the walls to scold him. “I shouldn’t tell you.”

“Sam, what did it say?” He tries to balance his tone between assertive and reassuring. He understands that Sam has a nervous nature, but a part of him wants to shake the other boy because of his hesitance.

Sam leans in close and lowers his voice so much that he has to strain his ears to hear him. “It was a letter from Winterfell. About your brother, Robb. He’s assembled his banners and is marching south. To make war in the riverlands against the Lannisters. To fight for your lord father.”

A part of him thinks back to the dream he had just escaped. Of his father, cold and blue and willing to kill him. “Thank you, Sam. For telling me.”

Sam still looks nervous, but takes the thanks well enough. “I should let you sleep.” He rises from the bed and steps out of his room. He can hear the quick steps of Sam hurrying away from his room.

He settles himself back under his furs. Ghost lifts his head to nose at his check before nestling up against his side. His thoughts race in the silence of the room.

He’s a man of the Night’s Watch. He’s sworn off his connections to his family and the conflicts of the south. He has no obligation to march alongside Robb, no obligation to go to war with the rest of the north, no obligation to save his father. Even if that wasn’t true, he was injured. His sword hand was burned and he wasn’t practiced with his left hand, he couldn’t wield a sword. He would be a useless soldier, someone who would be expected to stay back at the castle until his hand had healed.

 _So why do I feel like such a coward?_ Injury and vows be damned, something inside him demanded that he should be right beside Robb. That he should go south along with the rest of the north. If only this had happened months ago, then he wouldn’t have to worry about his vows because he hadn’t been a brother then. _But that would mean leaving Sam at the mercy of Ser Allister. And abandoning Grenn and Pyp and Matt and Halder and Toad._

Neither train of thought sat well with him. One involved forsaking the family he had known his whole life and the other involved discarding the connections he had made here, all on his own. He wanted to go but he also wanted to stay. Whenever he made his choice he was sure the decision be sour and unsatisfying.

\---

Once Maester Aemon lets him leave, he returns to his room. The revelation leaves his head feeling empty. The day had been full of conflicting emotions. He was bothered by Mormont keeping secrets from him, a childish part of him was honored to receive Longclaw, another part of him though he had no right to the sword, he had been glad to have something to celebrate with his friends, had been brought down by the memory of the wight, had been irritated by Sam’s inability to keep secrets, and shocked by Maester Aemon’s story.

He collapses onto his bed and looks down at his arm. He picks at an edge of the silk covering and flexes his fingers. Soon the maester had said, soon his hand would be healed and he would no longer be able to avoid the decision he had to make. Family or friends. Loyalty or honor.

 _I wonder if Robb has reached the riverlands. If he’s already taken action to defend our lord father._ He had joined the Night’s Watch in the hopes that he could prove that he had honor. In the hopes that he could prove Lady Catelyn wrong and show her that he was not a threat to House Stark. If he left he would be showing that he had no honor. He would be a deserter of the Night’s Watch who had disgraced himself by breaking his vows. He would be proving that Lady Stark was correct in distrusting him.

But staying here betrayed all the lessons Maester Luwin had instilled of loyalty to one’s house. It betrayed all his memories of his lord father and of all the times he had sparred with Robb. How could he not risk all for the people he had loved his whole life?

Maester Aemon’s words ring in his head, _love is the bane of honor, the death of duty_. The words had sat wrong with him then and sit wrong with him now. They remind him of other words, words that contradict the maester’s beliefs.

He remembers walking with Arya and finding Vorian sitting in the courtyard with Sansa. The man had traveled the world as a hedge knight and was never short on stories. Never one to be ignored, Arya had run up to be a part of what they were doing. When Sansa had asked for a story about love, Arya had quickly demanded a story about knights instead. Sansa had given Arya a look but before she had been able to say anything, Vorian had told them that there was no reason the requests had to conflict with each other. Vorian had told them that for most knights, love was the reason they swore themselves into service; love for their families, the house they were loyal to, their homeland, their king, and the people they vowed to defend. Sansa had been delighted, Arya had made a face, and he had listened.

Maester Aemon had said he had been faced with this decision three times and had chosen the Night’s Watch every time. _Was it strength or cowardice that had allowed him to make that decision?_ He immediately feels bad about the thought. He is sure staying with the Night’s Watch took a lot of strength on the maester’s part, but every time he considers doing the same it feels like cowardice.

He stops picking at his bandage and looks at the sword Mormont gave him. The man had claimed that the sword was repayment for saving his life, but this was the kind of gift fathers gave to sons. Few houses had ancestral Valyrian swords and for Mormont to give his house’s sword away felt like a big deal.

A part of him wondered if this was a ploy on the Lord Commander’s part. If this was the man’s way of trying to get him to stay. Of convincing him that he didn’t have to go south because the Night’s Watch was his family now. If Mormont was trying to position himself as his new father so that he wouldn’t go running off to save his true father. The thought bothered him and, even though Lord Mormont didn’t strike him as the type, he hoped it was untrue.

The sword already came with a history of dishonor. He had been young when Jorah Mormont dishonored his house, but Winterfell had been abuzz with talk. There had been all sorts of tales about what the man had done, each more unbelievable than the last, but the one thing that had been consistent was that Jorah had shamed his home and the north. That, before the man had fled Westeros, he would have been executed for his crimes. _Am I willing to do the same?_

His circling thoughts just made him angry. _The choice should be easy_ , a dark part of him whispered, but it didn’t tell him which choice to make. If anything, the thought only made angrier. If the choice was so easy, how was it that he couldn’t make one? If the choice was easy, why was it that contemplating each choice felt appalling?

 _The choice is easy_ , his heart whispered. But it was dishonorable to leave. He was a dead man if he left, same as the man he had seen his father behead all those months ago. And, because he was abandoning the Night’s Watch, there was no guarantee his brother wouldn’t do the same. Yet the south still called to him.

 _The choice is easy,_ his brain whispered. But staying felt like a betrayal. But pretending nothing was wrong felt like cowardice. But trying to ignore any news he got from the war drove him crazy. But thinking about his family dying without him there felt indescribable. Yet he didn’t want to abandon the friends he had made here.

A knock on the door interrupts his thoughts. When he opens the door, he sees Sam standing in the hall, looking nervous and uncomfortable. “Maester Aemon sent me to fetch you. It’s time to change your wrappings.” He nods his head and follows the other boy out, forcefully, tabling his thoughts for later.


	16. Rhaenys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder that Lancel has been aged up to take Jaime's places as the father to Cersei's kids.

Their stay in the Water Gardens is short. Oberyn was expected back in Sunspear and she had no real reason to stay. Still, she had enjoyed the beach and the time she had spent bonding with her uncle. They had spoken over games of cyvasse, all of which she had lost since she had never played the game before, and her uncle had proven an interesting man. Prince Doran presented himself as mild mannered and weak, but, through observing him, it was obvious that the man was actually thoughtful and deliberate. Where Oberyn was a raging fire, uncontrollable and dangerous, Doran was a hearth flame, persistent and dependable.

Her days return to much of the same when they get back to Sunspear. She has riding lessons with Obara in the morning, which have mostly become an excuse to spend time with the older woman, she alternates her mid-mornings between reading about Westeros or sparring, at noon she eats with Ashara, in the afternoon she spends some time with her cousin Arianne and the Dornish court, and in the late afternoon she does something for herself before going to sleep.

She likes spending her afternoons with Arianne. Her cousin is sly and honest in a way that always makes her smile. It is also at Arianne’s elbow that she learns about how to manage court. Even though, or maybe because, Arianne was impish and insatiable, she knew exactly what she was supposed to say and what she was supposed to do, to get others to see her as she wanted them to. And though she, officially, has no place in court, Arianne doesn’t question her interest in the matter.

Today, after completing her duties with the nobles, Arianne pulls her aside by linking their arms together and walking them away. Her cousin finds them a secluded table, laden with wine and food, not far from the pomp of court, but far enough to earn them some privacy.

Arianne grins at her from across the table. “Tell me cousin, do any of them strike your fancy?” As if to punctuate her point, she waves her cup of wine towards the people in the room. For their point of view, the nobles of Dorne are a rainbow of color, some further highlighted by the glittering gleam of jewels.

She swallows her sip of wine; the drink is sweet and dark as ink in the shadow of their alcove. Wine is not her preference, she prefers tea and waters, but this one is tolerable. “My fancy?”

“Aye. Are there any who move you to desire? Any you hunger to see in your bed, even if it were only once?”

“No,” she drops her voice to a whisper, “Have you seen one to your bed?”

Arianne leans forward with a grin. “I have.” Arianne lets out a low, roguish laugh. “Do not blush, cousin, I only share this secret with those I trust to keep it. Have you never partaken in pleasures of the flesh? At the very least, tell me you’ve been kissed.”

“I have, but it was at the hands of friends I held dear.” _And all of them female because of the value Westeros places on chastity._ “Are you not concerned that you will suffer in the future for pleasure now?”

This laugh is harsh and does not hold the same charm as her previous one. “From who? Any prospective husband who asks for proof of chastity would be doing so at the risk of insulting his future bride. And my father does not care. I’m sure I could tell he all about my exploits and all he would do is turn his head and pretend I said nothing.” The words sound bitter to her ears.

She dislikes the mood her cousin seems to be sinking into, so she nudges Arianne’s arm and makes sure her grin is appropriately wild. “Then tell me of your exploits. And I promise to be appropriately scandalized.”

The words serve their purpose, Arianne sends her a wicked look before telling of her adventures. She doesn’t even have to pretend to be scandalized once the stories begin. Her cousin has an almost obscene amount of experience and she tells of those experiences with the excessive detail of fond memories. But she also notices that each deed carries the tone of rebellion; to Arianne these exploits were more than just pleasures of the flesh, but also pleasures of a restrained soul desperate for freedom.

Still, it doesn’t keep her from commenting on what she thinks are questionable decisions. “You laid with Gerold Dayne?”

“He is rather handsome. Don’t you think so?”

“Not handsome enough for me to willingly want to spend _any_ amount of time with the man. Much less spend a night with him.” She can’t help but wonder if Arianne noticed the bitterness that Gerold Dayne carried on him and ignored it, or if her cousin was oblivious to the man’s unpleasantness.

Arianne hums, “Right, I don’t think he’s the Dayne you’re interested in.” She opens her mouth to say something, but Arianne interrupts her by leaning forward. “Tell me, is your man handsome?”

The change in subject catches her unaware and she fumbles for an answer. “My man?”

“Your sworn shield. There must be a reason you keep his face hidden-“

There’s a commotion in the room, as much as there can be in court. There is a swell of voices as the nobles begin to clump together to discuss whatever news has arrived. She and Arianne share a look, there was so much happening in Westeros that the only safe bet was that it concerned the war up north. Apparently not wanting to get up, her cousin waves someone over.

It takes her a moment, but she eventually places the woman who approaches as a minor member of House Jordayne. When Arianne asks what the commotion is about, the woman replies, “Lord Renly has crowned himself king in the stormlands. He’s married the Tyrell girl, so the Reach now swells his ranks.” She says some more things, but nothing important or of interest. Having delivered the news, the woman goes back to the rest of the gossipers.

Arianne takes a long drink from her wine. “That’s unexpected to say the least.”

“Why would Renly crown himself king instead of crowning his brother?”

“I’ve met Renly once. He was nice enough, but a tad oblivious and a tad arrogant.”

He had to be quite a lot of both to try and take up Robert’s claim while his _older_ brother was still alive. The alliance of the Baratheons and the Tyrells was unfortunate. Their alliance meant that the marshes would be impassible, unless they could find a way to join that alliance. Which was unlikely, Renly had already named himself king and had already taken a bride to make queen. The Tyrells had an unmarried eldest son, but offering to make him king would put the daughter at risk. _Waiting was the wise choice, I had no way of knowing Renly would do this. This isn’t even something I could have predicted, the decision lacks reason and should not have been made._

Arianne draws her from her thoughts by nudging her arm. She pushes away thoughts of war and goes back to listening to her cousin spin her lascivious tales. It’s easy to forget her concerns among their giggles and grins.

\---

After completing the things she had planned for the day, she had returned to her room. She had been playing with Balerion, when her cat had snatched a scarf from her wardrobe and took it under her bed. Out of curiosity, she wiggled under the bed to see if the cat had stashed anything else under there.

She’s sitting next to Balerion’s, substantial, horde when she hears a knock on her door. “Who is it?”

“It’s Erwin.”

She stays where she is and calls out for Jaime to come in. He closes the door behind him and pulls up a chair to sit in front of her.

When he doesn’t say anything, she asks, “Have you lost anything recently?”

“No, has Dread returned to his thieving ways?”

She hears Balerion meow in protest, but the evidence beside her belittles her cat’s objection. She had found fabrics of all sort, lengths of rope, gold and silver chains with all manner of jewels, leaves, small bones, and even a few coins all under her bed. She drags a piece of rope from the pile and watches as Balerion tries to pounce after it.

“Have you heard the news?”

“That Renly has crowned himself king?”

She nods her head. He doesn’t say anything after that. They sit in almost silence for a while, the only noise coming from Balerion jumping around.

“Did I make the wrong choice? Was I wrong in suggesting we should wait?”

“It was the sound choice.”

“But was it the right choice? We waited and now there is no choice but to continue waiting. We are locked behind the marshes. Prospective alliances have dwindled. And even more complications are likely to spawn.”

“You had no way of knowing that Renly would do this. You made the best choice you could make with the information you had. And like Doran pointed out, the Dornish lords couldn’t have been assembled in time to do anything.”

His reassurance is dissatisfying, he’s right but the knowledge doesn’t give her any comfort. It feels like they’ve lost important opportunities, like she’s committed them to sweeping up after the war. _At least Dornish lives won’t be lost for no reason._ “I could have known, but I haven’t dreamed since we’ve arrived.”

Jaime’s eyebrows rise. She isn’t sure why he’s surprised. She has told him about every premonition she’s ever had, why would she stop doing so now that they are in Dorne? “Even more reason for you to be reassured that you did the best you could.”

She lures Balerion close enough for her to sweep him into her arms. “I guess.” She gets up off the floor, still holding her cat to her chest. She steps forward and fixes the covering over Jaime’s face. “Let’s go. I want to look through the rest of the scrolls and see if more of them are like that one.”

Jaime nods his head and follows her out of her room. She briefly remembers that she left Balerion’s horde on the floor, but she brushes the thought off for her to deal later. The guards have gotten used to their comings and goings, so they make their way, unbothered, through the halls.

The study is empty, as usual. She knows that Ashara come in to write, usually early in the morning, but she’s never seen anyone else in the room. The room is always clean, free of dust and cobwebs, yet she’s never seen any servants around the room. The mystery of the room, and its contents, intrigues her and she intends to find something out.

Once they arrive, she walks straight to the table covered with scrolls. She sets Balerion on the floor, gestures for Jaime to sit down, and begins to pick out scrolls. She divvies them out between herself and Jaime, and they get to reading.

Some scrolls are short, no more than a couple of phrases, and others are longer, containing paragraphs worth of observations. And they are all observations; of people, of locations, of events. The only proper description for these scrolls is reconnaissance, even though most of the information was a consolidation of rumors, it was obvious someone close to the subject of interest was gathering the information.

They get through the scrolls quickly enough, they aren’t combing the texts for specific details, they are just trying to get a basic understanding of what each scroll contains. They discuss what they’ve read through, sorting the scrolls into categories based on the type of information it held.

In the end, there is only one other scroll like the one they had read about Queen Cersei. It is another one from King’s Landing, all about the obscene amount of bastards King Robert has fathered. The rest are a mix of rumors and vague, direct observations that would be unimpressive, if it wasn’t for the sheer number of them.

Even after going through all of them, it is still hard to tell if one person or multiple people wrote these reports. She leans back in her chair and runs her hands through her unbound hair. She’s irritated, she was hoping that they would learn more about where this information was coming from by going through all of it, but they haven’t learned anything about that.

“Did you have any with information from the North, the Iron Islands, or the Vale?”

Jaime shuffles through his section. “A few, but not many. And most of them were on the shorter side.”

“It seems even these have their limits.”

“It’s still impressive. A collection lords would kill for.”

She nods her head. A part of her wants to ask Prince Oberyn or Ashara about them, but she doesn’t want to risk revealing that she has access to something she isn’t supposed to have access to. It could just be paranoia, but she is too used to the idea of restricted materials from her time as an apprentice in Myr. _I guess this is a mystery for another day._


	17. Arthur

He wakes up with a sigh. Remnants of his dream cling to the edges of his mind, trying to drag him back into the fog. It had been a long time since he had dreamt of Dorne. He thinks of Dorne almost every day, sometimes in little ways sometimes in big ways, but he had not dreamt of Dorne since his time in King’s Landing. Back when he was stuck between feeling homesick and being glad to be away from his brother.

He had dreamt of the red mountains near Starfall. Once, his maester had taken him out there, to witness a supposedly rare phenomenon that could only happened in autumn, but wasn’t guaranteed to happen every autumn. His brother had been _too busy_ and Ashara had been at the Water Gardens, sent to meet Princess Elia, so it had only been him and the maester hiking through the mountains. They had left Starfall near midnight. It had been a moonless night, so they had spent the whole night hiking by torchlight. By coincidence, they arrived to where they needed to be right as the sun began to peek over the horizon and color the sky.

Dawn had revealed that the mountains were completely covered in flowers. The super bloom had made the Red Mountains a rainbow of color. The cool autumn breeze carried the sweet smell of the flowers and it had been amazing. In his dream he had been there, not as a boy, like he had been in his memory, but as the adult he was now. It had been peaceful and idyllic and warm and it made wanting to leave his bed difficult.

But he didn’t have the luxury of lazing around. With a groan, he rocks himself out of bed and readies himself for the day. He washes himself, having never grown out of the Dornish practice of bathing every day, and quickly dresses. After breaking his fast, he heads to the solar.

Bran attended to his lordly duties in the same solar as his brother, and their lord father before them. If he had thought it surreal to be summoned to that room by Robb, it was even odder to be summoned by Bran. Until Ser Rodrik arrived back to serve as Castellan of Winterfell, he was filling in as an advisor for Bran. Along with Maester Luwin, he assisted Bran in making decision concerning Winterfell, the North, and the people they both contained. He keeps a quick pace to ensure he does not arrive to that meeting late.

When he enters the room, he finds Bran, Maester Luwin and Hodor idling in the room. Hodor greets him upon entering and he politely greets the man back. He sits down and eyes the paper sitting on the table. The white wax of the seal tells him that it is a letter from the war front, hopefully good news, especially considering the last letter from the front was to inform them that Lady Catelyn would not be returning to Winterfell.

With everyone settled, Bran nods his head and the maester reads the letter to them. It is brief, it announces that the North has won the battle outside of Riverrun, had taken hostages of note, had suffered minimal losses, and was on its way to take Riverrun. The note was vague, in case it fell into enemy hands, but informative enough for them.

“Good news,” the maester says, “Let us hope it continues that way.”

Bran taps his fingers against the desk in front of him. “Is there anything we can do to help them?”

“We could send requests to the other castles, so that they may start training more men. There are thousands more that can be found and sent south, but they would be untrained men. If the forces south haven’t lost many, it could give us the time needed to make them fighting men.”

The maester looks at him. “Speaking of training, how are things going with the new recruits for the guard.”

When he first became a knight he never thought he would be training boys greener than spring grass. He had considered that he may mentor a squire, but even that thought had vanished once he had joined the Kingsguard. The knights of the Kingsguard didn’t really keep squires, they only took them up if circumstances necessitated it. “As well as can be expected. They are young and I am not accustomed to teaching groups. I hope that when Ser Rodrik returns, he has better luck with them.”

“Speaking of which,” the maester pulls another piece of paper from his sleeve, “We have received word from White Harbor. Ser Rodrik has arrived there and is likely already well on his way.” News he, in particular, was glad to hear. “Though, Lord Manderly also wrote of news from the south. He has heard that Lord Renly Baratheon has declared himself king and has garnered the support of the Reach.” That news was less welcome.

“Why would he do that? If they are going to deny Joffrey’s claim, shouldn’t he be supporting his brother, Stannis?” A rather innocent question on Bran’s part.

“A desire for the crown, no doubt. Renly was too young for me to have heard any rumors about him back when I was wandering down south. And I don’t remember much of what was said of Stannis, but he was known for being… less impressive than Robert. It wouldn’t be the first time a brother saw an opportunity and tried to capitalized on it.”

“But to act against his brother,” Bran trails off, not finishing the thought. Still, the implication was clear, he couldn’t imagine doing the same to his own brother.

The maester shakes his head. “It is a shame. And it will make it harder to receive support from the stormlands, since we can no longer appeal to the stormlands as a whole.”

“We should send a raven informing Robb. He could learn that on his own, but it would be best to make sure he knows.”

“A wise decision, Bran.” Luwin starts arranging supplies to immediately pen the missive.

The rest of the meeting is less eventful. They talk about the maester’s calculations of the season and how they should start setting food aside in preparation for winter. They talk about what preparations they will have to make for the harvest feast and they guide Bran through which lords should receive ravens sooner, so that they may make it in time for the festival. They talk about preparing for the influx of people who would be making their way towards Winterfell as winter came closer and hundreds of other little, but important, things.

Once their weekly meeting is over, he heads for the courtyard to go train the new recruits. He had always known that growing up with a master-at-arms was an incredible advantage, but he had never really considered how. It is only now, that he is forced to act as one, that he realizes the advantage to a master-at-arms isn’t the youthful training, but the instruction on proper technique. Every one of these boys, and all but one of them is still a boy, has at the very least played at wielding a sword, but most of them haven’t even seen someone properly wield a weapon. So, on top of trying to teach them, he has to help them break their bad habits.

He has to keep them from swinging their blades like clubs, how to stop holding their weapons like tree branches, to stop standing with their feet so close together or so far apart that they become easy to knock over, and dozens of other little things that keep them from quickly moving forward. It has been a handful of weeks and he still doesn’t trust them enough to move them up from wooden training swords. Each day has him praying for Ser Rodrik to travel just a little bit faster, so he can be free of this task.

The training lasts a couple of hours and, if he’s being honest with himself, the recruits _are_ getting better, but at a much slower pace than he’d like. He appreciates that the recruits respect him enough to listen to him, so most of his frustration just comes from teaching. There is only so many times he can correct the same issues before he wants to storm off. _If I hadn’t known before, I definitely know now that I was not meant to teach._

When they finish the bulk of the lesson, he notices that recruits still have too much energy. That they are buzzing with a need to fight. He doesn’t trust them enough to spar with each other, injuries come easy when sparring partners are hungering for a fight, but letting them leave like this will leave them feeling agitated.

He gives a shout for them to line up. One thing he’ll say in the whole group’s favor is that they take commands well, they line up in a matter of seconds and look at him attentively. He splits them into groups, trying to balance the groups so that they each have roughly the same level of skill. They begin to buzz with curiosity as he instructs the first group to arm themselves with wooden swords, but they grow quiet and attentive once he arms himself with two wooden swords. He tests the weight of each practice weapon in his hands. _I haven’t sparred since before Robert arrived at Winterfell. It had been with Jory. And after he lost he had sworn that he would finally beat me the next time._

He pushes the melancholic thought out of his head, and explains the rules of the exercise. He explains that the point of the exercise is to test individual skill and how well each group works together. That the groups would take turns facing him, with all of them trying to score a hit on him. Team members would be eliminated if he disarmed or knocked them down, and each team’s attempt was over if he eliminated all the members or if they scored a hit against him. After fielding a few questions, the groups draw lots to see who would go first.

Going through all the groups doesn’t take long. The first group struggles because they underestimate him, they cluster to try and rush him which makes it so that he can knock most of them down immediately. The next group overcorrects and most of them try to take him one on one or two on one. The next two groups are a mix of getting in each other’s way and respecting each other’s space too much, but it’s the last group he is most impressed by.

The last group seemed to have been paying attention, because they don’t make the same mistakes the earlier groups did. Not only do they try to surround him, but the stronger members defend the weaker members, likely trying to keep their numbers advantage. Their efforts are enough to keep him on the defensive and if they had more stamina that might have gotten a hit in, but as they tire he still has the energy to pick them off. With the recruits appropriately drained of their energy, he sends them off to do whatever they have to do.

Once he’s done with that, he looks for Rickon. The boy had mellowed slightly, but it took effort to keep him from losing that calm. He walks through the halls looking for, either, a head of red hair or a direwolf, dark as shadow.

He checks the stables, the kennel, the Sept, the smithy, and his room, before eventually heading for the kitchens. The boy had a charming smile and had no issue using that smile to sneak himself snacks.

The kitchen is every bit of controlled chaos he expects it to be, this close to meal time. The space is hot from the ovens, the sound of clanging metal can be heard in every corner, people were scurrying around with all matter of items, and Gage can be heard, yelling above all of it.

People step out of his way as he approaches the man, but he’s sure it has less to do with him and more to do with how Gage runs the kitchen. Once Gage sees him approach, the man stops what he was doing and waves the people around him away.

After a quick greeting, he gets straight to the point. “Have you seen Rickon?”

Gage nods his head. “Just saw him race off with a tart in his hand. Probably taking it to the ‘wood so no one can catch him eating it.”

“Thanks. I’ll go look for him there.”

Before he gets the chance to turn and walk away, Gage asks, “How’s the guard looking?”

“They’re getting somewhere, but it’s hard to call it a guard right now.”

“Though, all we need is enough to hold the castle.”

“Right. But one man isn’t enough for anything else.”


	18. Jaime

He keeps a close eye on Rhaenys as she leans out over the balcony. Her head is craned up towards the sky, watching the red streak move across the clouds. The streak had appeared overnight, like a wound in the sky. He was impressed by the comet’s visibility. It was midday now and he could still see the streak, as clear as it had looked in the pale light of dawn.

Rhaenys turns around and leans against the balcony to look at him. “Maester Myles said that the streak is just a comet, a meteorological event that a skilled maester could predict if he had accurate historical records. Tyene said it’s the Maiden’s blood from her dances in the sky. Obara said it’s the gods calling for blood in the war to come. I heard a servant claim that it is Valerian fire, bringing punishment to the Lannisters for what they did to the last Targaryens. And I heard a guard claim that it is an ill omen, plain and simple. What do you think it means?”

“I think it means what we want it to mean. That it acts as an excuse for us to do what we want to do.”

She pushes off the balcony. “You’re not wrong. But some people don’t need an excuse to do what they want.” He trails behind her as she walks back into the castle.

He’s sure she is referencing Lord Stark’s execution. When he had heard the news, he knew that things hadn’t played out like his father wanted. His father may have wanted Stark dead, but to kill the man on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor would mean making enemies of the faith and he knows his father wouldn’t have approved of that. Which leaves him to wonder if his sister was the one who wanted the man dead or if his nephew was truly out of his family’s control. Both options were unfortunate and didn’t bode well for the war that was coming.

He quietly trails behind Rhaenys as she walks down the familiar path to the study. Rhaenys had poured through so much of that information, he was sure she knew more about Westeros than most maesters, but she still went back to that study to see what else she could learn. He never got to interact much with Prince Rhaegar, but he had heard that the man was studious. _Though, I doubt Rhaenys would take well to being compared to her father._

She had always maintained a neutral to poor opinion of the man, but being in Dorne hadn’t done Rhaegar any favors. The people of Dorne did not care for Rhaegar or his actions and were very vocal about it. They condemned the man for his actions at Harrenhal, they condemned him for kidnapping Lyanna Stark, they condemned him for leaving his family in King’s Landing, and they condemned him for the death of their princess and her children. What surprised him was the Dornish attitude on Lyanna Stark.

He expected them to denounce Lyanna as a seductress, like the rest of Westeros had during the rebellion, but most considered her to be another one of Rhaegar’s victims. Whether Lyanna went willingly or was kidnapped depended on who was telling the story, but they all thought of her as a young girl who had been spirited away by the insatiable prince. They hung their heads and spoke of how Rhaegar had almost killed the Starks with his greed, like how he had gotten his family and half the Kingsguard killed.

This sentiment had made Dorne sympathetic to the current plight of the Starks. Dorne, as a whole, did not care for the Baratheons nor the Lannisters, so the news that Lord Stark had been executed, without trial, had caused waves. For the past couple of weeks, about every third conversation he overheard was about the war brewing up north. Some claimed they wouldn’t be surprised if the North kept fighting, even though their lord was dead; others said, after their ravaging, the riverlands had no choice but to keep fighting; and some argued that this would be the turning point for Tywin Lannister, that this would be the moment where his ambition turned to ruin. Either way, Dorne was agitated and willing to go to war.

But, more importantly, Rhaenys hadn’t picked a side, so he had not picked a side. Where ever she went, he would follow. Whoever she sided with, he would support. As they near the study, he pushes the thought of going to war against his family out of his head. It was inevitable, Rhaenys’s claim went directly against all the power his father had dedicated himself to accumulating, but it was something he was firmly shelving to deal with in the future.

He almost walks into Rhaenys’s back when she jolts to a stop in the doorway of the study. He catches himself before he bumps into her, but it does leave him awkwardly looming over her. Before he gets the chance to look over her shoulder, she exclaims, “Lady Ashara! I did not expect to find you here.”

He takes a moment to peer into the room, Ashara is sitting at her desk across the room from all her research materials, before stepping away from Rhaenys. He’s just as surprised as Rhaenys to see that Ashara is in the room. It’s well known that Ashara spends her mornings in this room; preparing correspondences, writing for her book, reading, and any other scholarly duties she attended to, but she rarely returns after the morning.

He doesn’t hear a response from Ashara, but he does hear Rhaenys say, “If we are disturbing you, we are more than willing to come back later.” A distant part of him, that sounds vaguely like his father, disapproves of Rhaenys’s wording. Most lords and ladies wouldn’t have acknowledged their sworn shield. A woman of her station would have said _I_ not _we_.

“No, it’s alright. Please, come in.” There is something off about Ashara’s voice, like she is tired or fatigued.

He follows Rhaenys into the room and hovers behind the chair she sits down in. On the desk, there is paper sealed with the pale, lilac wax of House Dayne. Ser Arthur had kept a small square of that wax in his room in the White Sword Tower. He wonders what it must have been like to clear out those rooms: if Selmy had been forced to slowly pick clean the reminders of his sworn brothers or if someone else, who hadn’t known them or didn’t care about them, had swept through their rooms, ignorant and uncaring about all the memories they were clearing away. _If I had stayed, would that task have fallen to me? Would I have had to clear away the memory of the good men whose brotherhood I disgraced?_

“Is something the matter?”

“I don’t know.” The words come out slow and he can almost see how much admitting that bothers Ashara. “I’ve received word from my sister that she hasn’t heard from our nephew in months. Edric is a good boy and he knows how much Allyria worries, so it is odd for him to not write to her.”

“Pardon, but your nephew’s name is Edric?” He and Rhaenys had the same question. _Eddard_ Stark had killed Arthur Dayne, to name a son after the man who had murdered your brother spoke of an enmity worse than the one Cersei had for Tyrion or of a terrible coincidence.

Ashara smiles but the motion is humorless. “There was bad blood between Arthur and our older brother. Arthur was every bit the prodigy our brother was not and that never sat right with him. Though, if I’m being honest, our lord brother never really liked any of us. He said naming him Edric was just a show that there was no ill will over our brother’s death, but he was a spiteful man and it was hard to believe him.” Both, the idea that this man had not loved his brother and the idea that this man had not loved Arthur felt absurd to him.

“What was your nephew doing? Why can you not find him?”

“He was acting as squire for Lord Beric Dondarrion, Allyria’s betrothed. The last we heard of them, they were in King’s Landing, but that was months ago.” Ashara looks down pensively at her desk. “I’d like to hope that the boy is fine, I’m sure Lord Beric would do everything he can to defend him, but Edric is young and the lord of our house. We worry for him.”

“Is your sister his guardian?”

“Yes, and Allyria is also acting regent until Edric comes of age.” She cuts Rhaenys off before she gets the chance to say anything. “My brother died five or six years ago. I was already married to Prince Oberyn by that time and it seemed much more sensible for the regent of Starfall to be someone who was in Starfall. And, while Allyria has been promised, her marriage will not happen until after Edric has become lord.”

“Will you tell me about your sister?”

He spends the rest of the afternoon listening to Ashara speak about her sister. Of how the first time she held her sister it had been the same week she found out Arthur was joining the Kingsguard. How Allyria had clung to Ashara’s skirts the day she officially left to join Princess Elia’s court, only a few months before the tourney of Harrenhal. How Allyria had taken it upon herself to act as Ashara’s nurse maid during the older woman’s pregnancy. How even though Allyria had been a maid, she had not cried when Ashara had left to be married to the Prince of Dorne, leaving her alone with their lordly brother who had never paid much attention to their younger sister.

Ashara recounts that Allyria wrote to her every month, not for gossip about Sunspear or to ask from some well-placed words in a handsome lord’s ear, but to ask if her sister was happy and if her son was doing well. That Allyria had once sent a jar of red mountain dirt to Sunspear because she had once off-handedly, mentioned that she was feeling home sick. That, when she had returned to Starfall for their brother’s funeral, Allyria had rushed up to her to whisper about how _good_ Edric was and how, even though their brother had betrothed Allyria without her approval, Beric Dondarrion was also a good man and when the time came she would have little issue with marrying the man.

When Ashara realizes much time has passed, she offers to walk Rhaenys back to her room. They walk together, arm in arm, still whispering to each other. Even though he can’t hear them, he knows that they are still talking about Ashara’s relationship with Allyria. Rhaenys had always had a soft spot for stories about siblings.

When she had been a little girl, just barely taller than his knee, she would sit glued to his side and he would tell her stories of when he had played with Tyrion. Stories like the one, back when he was still a squire and not yet a knight, where he and Tyrion had pretended that Tyrion had been a great dragonlord from the times of Valyria. He had dashed around with Tyrion perched on his shoulders, pretending that Tyrion had actually been riding a dragon.

Once, after hearing the story, Rhaenys had asked if he thought if her relationship with Aegon would have been like that, if he had lived. He had, without hesitation, assured her that she and Aegon would have been the best of friends. He thinks that for her, these stories were an attempt to connect to something that she had lost.

When they reach Rhaenys’s room, the princess dismisses him for the evening. He closes the door after Ashara and Rhaenys step inside and heads for his room. As he walks, he distantly notes that the guard is currently making its rounds around the living quarters, likely in preparation for the shift change, making it so that he doesn’t run into anyone as he heads for his apartment.

He is rather surprised when he steps into his room and finds Prince Oberyn seated at the table in his room. It vaguely feels as though he has walked through the wrong door with how casually the prince looks, reclining in that chair slowly peeling and eating an orange.

He can’t fathom why the man is here. He has told Oberyn about what happened to his sister and her son, of the men who were responsible for their grizzly fate, and of how loyal those men where to his father, how willing they were to act outside his orders. He had, without hesitation, albeit distantly, told the prince everything. Having already told the prince that, he couldn’t think of a reason for this visit.

“Sit. I have something to discuss with you.”

He pulls the covering from his face and sits across from the man. When Oberyn doesn’t say anything, he sits in silence. He watches as the prince cuts away a section of his orange and pops it into his mouth. He watches as the man slowly chews that piece of orange. He’s always been good at watching, but he’s gotten better at waiting. He’s sure anyone who knew him before would find that unbelievable.

If Oberyn finds his silence surprising, he doesn’t let it show. “I’ve received a letter, requesting a meeting to broker terms for Dorne’s alliance with King Renly. But the letter wasn’t from King Renly, it was from Willas Tyrell.”

“Renly takes Dorne for granted.”

“That he does, but the heir of the Reach does not. And while I have no issue meeting Willas, that meeting would take place in the Reach, not in Bitterbridge where Renly is gathering his forces. Doran agreeing to an alliance with King Renly is already low considering he has already chosen a queen and she is not ours, but Doran definitely won’t back a losing horse.” Oberyn leans forward in his chair. “I’ve heard all sorts of things about the number of men Renly is gathering and while I can tell you every lord who’s joined his side I know too little about the true strength of his army.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“I need someone to go to Bitterbridge who can tell me the true strength of Renly’s army. We both know that ten thousand men is not the same thing as ten thousand soldiers.”

“You’re a Prince of Dorne. I’m sure you have dozens of lords who could do this for you.”

“But it would force our hand. Any Dornish lord or heir who shows up at Renly’s encampment would prove the man right. That he had no reason to request aid from Dorne, no reason to respect Dorne, because we will fight for him anyways. But if you go I would know that the task I am asking of you would be successfully completed. While you would be an agent for Dorne, to Renly’s army you would be no one.”

“No one? I look every bit a Lannister and that would make me someone there.”

“We dye your hair brown and then you could be a minor member of House Jordayne, or any other of the border houses.”

Before he gets the chance to reply there is a crash and a woman’s scream. He ignores the clattering of his own chair as he races out towards Rhaenys’s room. The walk, normally, takes a couple of minutes but his current sprint feels like it takes so much longer. When he turns the corner, into the hallway where the door to her room sits, he sees the heels of a man as he enters the room he _knows_ is her room and a dead guard on the floor.

Here, time feels like it moves too fast. There is no time to think as long strides take him right to that doorway. Time stops as his eyes take in the scene. He makes it in time to see the figure who had last gone through the door, _Morgan,_ engage with a man struggling with a pale skinned woman, _Ashara_. He sees an overthrown table, a pushed back chair, items scattered across the floor, but it is what he doesn’t see that upsets him. He doesn’t see golden skin or the vibrant red of her dress, he doesn’t see her and it panics him.

When time picks back up, he pulls his dagger from his belt and steps into the room. The rest of his senses heighten, desperate to find Rhaenys. He can smell the metallic tang of blood in the air, he can feel the tension of the moment against his skin, and, under the sound of the scuffle in front of him, he can hear a faint shaky breath. He turns to his right and sees nothing, but he tilts his head down, ever so slightly, and can see the splay of dark hair against the floor. He steps in that direction and sees a body on the floor, a man dressed in what might be servant’s clothing, and under that the red he’s been looking for.

He rushes over to that section of floor and grabs the back of the man’s shirt, prepared to slit his throat. But as he pulls the man up, his head hangs in a way that is wholly unnatural. He tosses the corpse aside and spots a hilt sticking out of his chest. The hilt is ornate and inlaid with mother of pearl, he recognizes it as the dagger Nymeria had gifted to Rhaenys before she had left Sunspear, and, from how little blood there is staining the shirt, he can tell that Rhaenys had managed to stick the man in the heart.

Rhaenys stares at him from the floor, eyes wide, and she presses herself back like she’s trying to disappear into the floor. He crouches down beside her and softly begins to say “Rhae-“ before he bites back the rest of her name. He notices how her chest doesn’t rise and how her nostrils don’t flare, _she has always been so quiet, so used to hiding since that day she came out from under my bed._ When he reaches out for her, she reaches back for him.

He pulls her into his arms and tries to soothe her shuddering, still mostly on the floor. The corpse had not bleed much but it had bleed, Rhaenys’s fingers leave warm, wet imprints on his clothes and there is a large streak of the red liquid across her cheek. He crushes her to his chest and tries to rock her into peace.

He turns to look at the other people in the room. He finds that only Morgan and Ashara are still standing, the other man, apparently, having been dispatched. He sees Morgan holding his mother’s forearms and hears Ashara softly reassure her son. He also, faintly, hears Prince Oberyn giving out orders in the hallway.

There is a moment of quiet as they attempt to calm down. It is not silent; there was the wet sound of breath and the muted sound of murmuring, but it was quiet. Which made the cracking sound all the more obvious.

There is a sound like the crack of thunder, like the rending of the skies, except the sound came from the other dead body across the room. A flinch ripples through the room at the sound. He turns to look at Morgan, who has moved in front of his mother defensively, and to look at Prince Oberyn, who has taken up the guard’s spear and stands in the doorway. He motions for Morgan to come towards Rhaenys and moves to approach the corpse.

She doesn’t stop him as he moves away. He advances towards the corpse in a crouch, wary of what could have made that sound. There are more things on the floor in this area. Something was knocked over and it has left fabric scattered everywhere. He finds the body face down on top of the mess.

It appears that Morgan’s kill had been nowhere near as clean as Rhaenys’s kill. A large pool of blood was trying to develop on the floor, hindered by how the fabric nearby leeched from the puddle. He sees nothing that could have caused the sound. He adjusts his grip on his dagger and flips the body.

He instantly has the thought that he is too used to Balerion, because when an inkblot-like shadow moves past him he does not strike at it. Instead, he lets that shadow dart past him, towards the others in the room.

His eyes follow the shadow’s movement, movement that looked nothing like how Balerion moved. No one else strikes at it; not Oberyn with his spear or Morgan with his bloody blade. The only thing that keeps him from thinking it is some sort of hallucination is how everyone else’s eyes follow it. The shadow keeps moving until it’s found its way straight into Rhaenys’s lap.

It’s when the creature cranes its head, to rub it against the red streak across Rhaenys’s cheek, that he makes sense of the creature. He sees that the creature isn’t just an inkblot, but colored black and gold. There is a slight trilling sound, so unlike any other sound he has heard from any other animal, and with that he knows what it is.

In Rhaenys’s lap is a dragon.


	19. Rhaenys

She sits perfectly still as people around her load her horse for travel. She had never cared for having servants, for most of her life she had lived without them, and usually insisted on doing what she could by herself, but now she didn’t do a thing. She didn’t adjust the straps on her saddle, she didn’t check to see if her belongings were packed, if they were properly packed, or if they were even her belongings.

She hasn’t done much of anything since last night. After the shock had passed her uncle had spouted off orders; to the people in the room, to the people in the hall, but none to her. He must have known that she was not listening to him, instead she had focused on the creature in her lap. Focused on how warm it was, on how it’s scales glittered in the fire light, on the way it had watched and trilled as Balerion had approached, on how the two had stared at each other, gold eyes to gold eyes, until they had curled around each other, and how the two had felt in her arms as she held them, like they were a part of her. _And ignored the feeling of that man’s blood on her._

Ser Jaime had picked her up off the floor and carried her to his room. If he had said something to her while he carried her, she hadn’t heard it. She had been enamored by the image of Ser Jaime cradling her while she cradled _her_ _pets, her children, her soul?_ In that moment, even though it had been hazy and distant, she had felt safe. After that moment, after Ser Jaime had seen her clean and she laid in bed alongside two old friends and a new one, she had felt like everything might be alright in the morning. _Except it wouldn’t be, because in the morning that man would still be dead._

She looks down when someone touches her leg. She sees Ser Jaime, and she can only tell it is him by the emerald green of his eyes that peek out from his face covering, and he tells her that they are leaving now. She has the presence of mind to nod her understanding, but her focus is on the satchel he wears, same as the one she wears right now, resting against her side like a smoldering ember. She had no issue luring Balerion into his bag, he had traveled like that before, and it showed in how little Jaime’s satchel moved. It was her own bag that gave away its living cargo.

It had been harder to lure the dragon into the bag. In the end, when cooing, soft touches, and items didn’t work to willingly move the dragon, she had waited until the creature was sleeping to gently pick up and place in the bag. She was sure the dragon was still sleeping, but, like so many other creatures, there was still movement in sleep.

This ride to the Water Gardens isn’t much different from the last one, except that this time they are accompanied by Lady Ashara and Morgan and an increased guard. The guard isn’t as large as she would have thought considering the attempt on her and Lady Ashara’s lives, but, as far as she knows, her uncle has smothered all word of the attempt. As far as Sunspear knows, this is just a slightly earlier routine trip to see Prince Doran.

They ride fast and hard. Ser Jaime and Lady Ashara ride at her sides, her uncle rides in front of her, and Morgan rides somewhere behind her. They never move out of this protective diamond. The guard rides around them, alert and attentive, but nothing interrupts their travel.

When they arrive, her uncle wastes no time in giving out orders. He calls over servants and guards and after a couple of words they go scurrying off to complete whatever task they’ve been assigned. When he is done with them he approaches her.

Her uncle puts his hands on her shoulders, likely to ensure that she is paying attention. His voice is soft when he says, “Do you have any preferences for where you want to stay and wait?”

“Outside. I’d like to be outside.” Her uncle makes a face at her words. She doesn’t think it has to do with her request, but how her request sounds. Even to her, her words sound distant and subdued.

Her uncle turns to Ashara and says, “If you could escort them to the western wing’s garden. It should be secluded.” After that, her uncle calls for Morgan to follow him and they leave.

Lady Ashara links arms with her, standing opposite of where her dragon sat, and leads her away. She can hear Ser Jaime’s steps behind them, following at the appropriate distance. The halls blur into a haze of pink as they walk. She isn’t interested in admiring architecture at the moment, so she walks with unfocused eyes, eager to arrive at their destination. She can feel the dragon at her side stirring to be free.

Eventually, they arrive at a little open air square. It is rather different from the main courtyard garden. Where the main garden had a number of pools made for bathing or entertainment, this garden only had one pool, big enough to hold maybe four adults. Where the main garden had a series of fountains spraying water into the air, this garden only had one center fountain that sprayed a light mist into the air. If she were in the mood for laughter, she might have laughed at the fact that this garden had pomegranate trees instead of blood oranges. And, like her uncle had said, it is empty.

Lady Ashara presses a kiss to her forehead before she goes. It is a gentle thing, she can barely feel the feather light press against her skin, but it is enough to defrost some of the cold that has settled over her skin. She watches as Ashara walks away, watches the gentle touch she places on Jaime’s arm and the gentle touch he gives back. Once Ashara leaves, Jaime pulls her cat from his satchel and approaches her.

She sits on the edge of the fountain and motions for him to put Balerion down beside her. Her cat sidles up against her and looks at her with large eyes. Jaime stands across from her doing much of the same. “Why did you ask to be outside?” She pulls her dragon from her own satchel. Watches as the creature shifts and stretches, flaring its wings out in a way she has seen birds do. Golden scales seem to flash even brighter against the jet-black ones.

“He will no grow if kept inside.”

“He? The dragon? How do you know?”

“Brightdawn.” She appreciates Jaime tilting his head in confusion, if he hadn’t done that she would have had a hard time reading him. “His name is Brightdawn. After the blades of my two favorite knights.”

Jaime clears his throat and says, “You still haven’t told me know you know he won’t grow inside.” She can’t help but smile at how embarrassed he sounds.

Much like her cat would, Brightdawn clawed at the fabric of her sleeve to drape himself over her shoulders. “I could tell you about all the things I have read about dragons, about all those texts I wasn’t supposed to look at in Myr. But I would be lying if I said those texts gave me this knowledge. It’s just something I know. Like when I have a dream, it’s just something I know.”

\---

She and Jaime spend hours in the garden. They watch as Brightdawn flutters into the trees and glides from branch to branch. They watch as the dragon awkwardly waddles behind Balerion, not in a threating way but in a curious way, seemingly trying to copy her cat. She watches as Balerion and Brightdawn disappear into the bushes and return with a dead mouse. Balerion sets the mouse at her feet and jumps to her side to preen at his kill. Brightdawn stares as the mouse, huffing and puffing like Balerion trying to spit up a hair ball, until he releases a small burst of fire.

The smell of the mouse cooking is unpleasant but the sea breeze carries the scent away. She had thought that maybe dragons were like snakes and that Brightdawn would grab the meat in his jaws, tip his head back, and swallow it whole, but instead her dragon is forced to rip chunk after chunk to eat. When Brightdawn is done, he clambers up into her lap to rest.

She sits in the afternoon sun basking like a lizard. Still, she does not feel as warm as she should, sitting in the sun like this. The cold that had settled on her skin since last night has lessened but not gone away. _I have always thought of my mother as the heat in the world, as the heat of the sun that watched over me every day, what does it mean that I cannot feel it’s heat now? That I have not felt heat since I killed that man? Mama, I did not mean to kill him, I didn’t even mean to strike him, I had just meant to show him that I would not go easy._

Her uncle announces his presence before he approaches. It must be odd for him to do so, she doubts he’s rarely had occasion to do so. Her uncle gives her decent berth, her dragon has been placid with her and Balerion, but he had no guarantee he would behave with others that way. “Rhaenys,” she can’t help jolting in surprise, she had never heard her uncle say her name. He had only called her Mara, same as everyone else. “If you would follow me. We need to discuss what happened last night.”

She stands and follows Oberyn, Brightdawn cradled in her arms. Balerion threads between her steps, her cat never went far from her when she was upset. As they walk she can’t help but notice that the halls are empty. They pass no servants, no guards, no children, no one. _Is it a precaution for me? Or for others?_

They arrive at a sitting room. The pale pink walls are lined with art and light, gauzy curtains cover the windows. In the center of the room there is a large table where Prince Doran and Lady Ashara are already seated. Behind her uncle, stands Areo Hotah, large and imposing, but Morgan is nowhere to be found. _He had been there last night, so why isn’t he here?_

She and Jaime seat themselves at the table, her uncle circles the table and decides to remain standing near his brother. Doran watches her as she moves; though, maybe he is watching Brightdawn and not her. She doesn’t blame him, Brightdawn is beautiful _and dangerous._

When Ashara reaches out to squeeze her hand, she notices the sharp ring of bruises around the woman’s wrist. They hadn’t just tried to kill her, they had also tried to kill Ashara. It is hard to tell if the older woman is shaken, but even if Ashara was not noticeably unsettled it didn’t change the fact that someone with ill intent had broken into her home. That someone who had wanted to kill her had been in the same breathing space as her. That she had danced with death and, even though death had traded partners, for a few precious seconds death had held her hand.

After they settle, Doran clears his throat to speak. “It pains me to begin this meeting by saying that we cannot speak of this attempt outside of those present here. Oberyn has successfully stifled word of this in Sunspear. The guard who was killed was a man with no family and few, weak connections. Meaning there is no one to argue our claim that he killed himself. The disposal of the bodies was handled by people who are unquestionably loyal to Dorne and who’s absolute silence can be trusted.” _Who could be trusted with absolute silence? And how is it that Dorne has many who could be trusted like that in its employ?_ “Which brings us to the attempt.”

“When being disposed of, the men were searched for any identifiable items. We found nothing of note. Except for this.” Oberyn reaches into his pocket and tosses two black disks onto the table. The disks are almost identical, two circles of black wax stamped with a leaping trout. “The symbol of the Blackfish, Brynden Tully.”

Jaime leans forward in his chair and grabs one of the disks. “The Blackfish distinguished himself in the War of the Ninepenny Kings as a man of honor and bravery, people spoke of him as an exemplar knight. I once spent a month in his company, if he wanted to start a conflict with Dorne he would do so clearly and openly, not with assassins sent under the cover of night.”

“He also has no reason to quarrel with Dorne.” Now her uncle sits down. He collapses into his chair with all the grace that can be expected of a man known as the viper. “Especially not now, with the conflict he finds himself in the middle of.”

“You think this was a ruse.” Ashara’s voice is composed, another sign that she was not dragged down by the events of yesterday. “To keep Dorne from allying itself with the riverlands and the North.”

“The obvious benefactor is the crown,” she makes sure to keep her words steady, to try and not give away how off-kilter she feels. “Renly has no reason to want to keep us from the North. Why bother doing that when he could have both as allies.”

“Which brings us to the question of who they tried to kill.” Oberyn’s hand clenches into a fist. Likely, the very idea of having to discuss this made him angry. “There is the obvious option, the one we all likely thought of first, that _Mara_ was the target and Ashara a secondary casualty. Except, Prince Joffrey is betrothed to Sansa Stark, an easy enough betrothal to dissolve, and if they knew who _Mara_ actually was they could sturdy Joffrey’s contested claim with an infinitely stronger one.

“The other option is that Ashara was the main target and Mara a secondary casualty. I’m sure the crown knows that Ashara is my wife, I am sure they are aware that I have no legitimate children, and I am sure they have drawn conclusions from that. The queen has no husband and, if my wife were to die, I would be a valuable suitor, potentially, allowing the crown to sweep up an ally almost guaranteed to side against them. This makes the most sense, considering what they definitely know. And yet, we can’t ignore how close they came to killing someone important to us and this conflict.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Jaime run his hand through his hair. “What if neither is the complete reason and what if both were the target.” Jaime hunches over the table and lets out a soul deep sigh. “I ran into my uncle Gerion, alone,” he adds after the look Doran sends him, “in Volantis. He was attempting to make a trip to Valyria. He did make me and we did talk. He asked me why I was in Volantis, in Essos, and I told him that I was taking care of my daughter. One I implied to have had with a very important Dornish woman, important enough that knowledge of this child could threaten Dorne’s acceptance of the king’s peace. My uncle did not survive his attempt into Valyria and I know his relationship with my father was too strained for him to write to him, but his crew was abandoning him and any one of them could have taken that story back to my family.”

“Are you implying that this attempt was a ploy to what? Convince you to come back home?”

“I am implying that the attempt on Ashara could have been political and the attempt on Mara personal. That the attempt to kill both was purposeful, but that the crown doesn’t know how important Mara actually is.”

“It is well known in Dorne that I am close to Mara. And I’ve heard at least one person comment on how Mara looks like she could be my daughter. There is a chance that word of this could have reached King’s Landing.”

Her uncle Doran speaks up, having spent most of the conversation carefully listening. “Is there anyone who could know who Mara really is?”

“Varys knows she survived the sack. But we left King’s Landing without his assistance and we purposely avoided places I knew him to have connections. We were never contacted by anyone claiming to be connected to him and we never noticed anyone spying or tracking us.”

“And if he knew, wouldn’t he suggest a marriage alliance? Or at the very least caution against an assassination?”

Oberyn ran a hand through his hair. “An incorrect informant is dead much sooner than a delayed informant. It could be that the man is biding his time until he knows for certain.”

“And because of that, Mara and Ashara will stay here with me in the Water Gardens. It will be easier for the Water Gardens to keep secrets than Sunspear. We will keep him from knowing anything for certain.” For the next part, Doran looked directly towards his younger brother. “And we will bide our time in this conflict until we are ready.”

Brightdawn raised his head from her lap and peered over the edge of the table. It isn’t until that moment that it occurs to her what they may be referring to. “You mean until he is ready.”

“We have no way of knowing if he’ll grow big.” Her head swings around to look at Oberyn. “The last dragons grew to be no bigger than your cat. But even if he stayed that small, he would legitimize your identity more than a lost knight ever could. Only the Targaryens had dragons and even with your appearance, even if your cat was bigger than him, there would be no disputing that you are a Targaryen with him at your side.”

“And if he did grow big? If he did grow to be the size of the Black Dread?” She doesn’t give anyone the chance to answer. “He is a part of me,” the sound of her chair scrapping against the floor is loud in the quiet. She grabs armfuls of her dragon and cradles him to her chest like a baby. _The Targaryens killed thousands in the Field of Fire. The Valyrians killed so many more; the Ghiscari, the Andals, the Rhoynar. All because they had dragons. Using my dragon for this conflict would be asking me to do that same. To kill not just one, but hundreds, maybe thousands._ “And I won’t. I won’t act as anyone’s weapon.”


	20. Arthur

With Ser Rodrik back in Winterfell, he is alleviated from his duty as Bran’s advisor. He is thankful for it, considering the last meeting he had attended. Maester Luwin had begun the meeting by reporting that they had received a missive from Riverrun. Luwin had pulled from his sleeve a scroll, still sealed tight with the leaping trout of the Tullys.

The air in the room had been melancholy. It was nice knowing that Riverrun was back under Tully control, but the death of Ned Stark was still fresh in everyone’s heart. The letter had started much like the others they had received, giving updates on the state of the army and on the state of the various lords who had gone south, but had quickly changed into something else.

The letter reported that Robb was not planning on returning north. That he planned on remaining south and, with the aid of the riverlands, continue fighting against the Lannisters. That they would continue fighting on the behalf of the King in the North, Robb Stark.

There had been stunned silence as Luwin read the closing of the letter, signed _King Robb Stark._

“King Robb?” Bran had sounded appropriately confused, but more curious than worried. And he had thought, _what is it with the Starks and making bold, usually reckless, decisions?_

“It would appear so,” there had been a pause as Luwin thought of something, and then, “Prince Bran.”

“Prince Bran?” Bran had looked at him and Luwin. “You two seem… concerned.”

He had shared a look with the maester and had decided to take the lead. “Robb seceding the North has the potential to be very dangerous. As Warden of the North, he could have appealed to other wardens for assistance. Now, any house who wants to provided aid has to first commit an act of treason against the current crown to do so.” There was also the fact that Renly had already crowned himself king. Robb had put himself in direct contention with Renly alongside Joffrey, making it even harder to get aid from the south.

After that Bran had pushed aside the issue. There was little they could do about Robb’s kingdom in Winterfell. Instead they had moved to planning for the harvest festival for the turn of the season. With this new information, the harvest festival would have to double as an event to see which northern lords would support King Robb.

The more he thinks about it, the more confused he is by Robb’s decision. And not just by Robb’s decision but also by Lady Catelyn’s decision. Lady Catelyn was a smart woman and she, at the very least, must have realized how dangerous making Robb king was. He has to wonder if this decision wasn’t a long thought out one, but a sudden one that gained unstoppable momentum.

He feels an itch under his skin. There is no denying that conflict was coming, that war was brewing in Westeros. He had been kept from the past two wars; Rhaegar had ordered him to stay at the Tower of Joy, no matter how much he had argued against his friend, and Ned had suggested he not participate in the conflict against the Greyjoys, something he had willingly agreed to. With how things were looking now, he wouldn’t be a part of this war either. With how far Winterfell was from the south and with how isolated the castle was, it was unlikely that Winterfell would ever see conflict. Unlikely that he would ever see conflict.

He shakes off the thought and heads for Maester Luwin’s turret. As the head of Winterfell’s guard, he hears more news from the outside world than he ever has before. The north usually didn’t concern itself with the affairs of the south and Ned was not one to talk about things he didn’t consider relevant, so most of the things he had heard about the rest of Westeros was gossip, and because it was gossip it was usually contradicting. Now, since Robb had left, he feels like he’s heard more about Westeros, than he had heard since he arrived.

He is seeking out the maester in the hopes that he can learn about what he may have missed in Westeros, about what he may have missed in Dorne. When he arrives, he finds Luwin hunched over numbers and calculations. The maester had mentioned that he didn’t think this autumn would last long and he assumes that those calculations are his attempt to definitively say how short this autumn would be.

Luwin looks up when he steps in. “Vorian, how can I be of assistance?”

“I was wondering if you had any information about Dorne since the rebellion.”

Luwin furrows his brow, before standing up and moving things around. “Lord Manderly sends word whenever he hears anything he thinks is worth knowing.” After a bit more shuffling, Luwin pulls out a handful of letters. “These have information about Dorne. It isn’t much.”

“Anything is fine.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what are you hoping to find? Are you feeling homesick?”

“Not particularly,” _at least, no more than usual,_ “I don’t know what I’m looking for, but Dorne might be willing to provide some type of aid considering the Martell’s bad blood with the Lannisters.” One of the few things Ned had told him was that it had taken some convincing for the Martells to accept King Robert and the circumstances that allowed him to take the throne.

Luwin leaves him alone with the letters, leaving to go attend to something in the yard. Like Luwin had said there isn’t much information about Dorne and that information is also light on details. The first letter he finds is about how Jon Arryn went to Dorne to ‘pacify’ Oberyn Martell; though, the idea that anyone but a Martell soothed Oberyn is absurd to him, only Elia’s intervention had kept Oberyn from killing Rhaegar at the Tourney of Harrenhal.

The next letter is another about Prince Oberyn. This one tells that Oberyn had crippled the heir of the Reach, Willas Tyrell, in a tourney in the Reach. This one comes with significantly more detail, he thinks it is likely that a Manderly was present for this tourney. Whoever was there, reported that Oberyn had scored a solid hit against Willas’s chest, but the boy’s foot had gotten caught in the stirrup, dragging the horse down with him. Lord Manderly called it an unfortunate accident, but also reports that the Tyrells did not feel the same way.

He thumbs through to the next letter and feels like his heart has fallen through the floor. This one isn’t a letter penned by Lord Manderly, but from someone else entirely, someone whose handwriting makes his heart ache. He doesn’t read it immediately. He spends a quiet moment running his thumb over the familiar script, as though the texture of the paper might tell him something all by itself. He takes a deep breath before reading what his sister sent to Ned Stark.

The missive is short. No flowery words, no wistful reminisce, nothing that he would have expected from the crush Ashara had once told him she had for Ned. Ashara wrote that she was getting married to Prince Oberyn, nothing more, nothing less. The only hint of potential closeness was that Ashara had referred to Lord Stark as Ned instead of Lord Stark or Eddard.

The letter is dated for about a decade ago and that hurts him, pulls his heart back into his chest just to be constricted. He had never considered that Ned was keeping secrets from him, even now a small part of him feels terrible for considering the thought, but a larger part of him, a louder part of him, can’t ignore the hot burn of betrayal. He is holding in his hand evidence that Ned had withheld something from him. Evidence that Ned had known something about his family and had decided to not tell him. Was likely to never tell him.

He flips through the other letters, but none of them are in Ashara’s hand and a cursory glance through them shows nothing important. He goes back to his sister’s letter and stares at it. _Ashara has been married for a decade. I sat around wondering if she was even alive and Ned knew, not only that she was alive, but that she was married. And he didn’t tell me._

He’s aware that Ned had put a stop to all talk of Ashara Dayne, after rumor had spread that his sister might have been Jon’s mother, but he had also, unofficially, put a stop to talk about Lyanna Stark, _except with him._ He and Ned had spoken of Lyanna dozens of times, had spoken of Jon’s true parentage a handful of times, but, apparently, talking about his sister would have too far. _The other two topics carried the threat of treason, but talking about my sister would have been too much._

This betrayal also clarifies something else to him, Ned likely never intended to tell Jon his true parentage. That, if given the chance, he would have waited until any interest in the subject faded, so that he didn’t have to tell anyone the truth. _Ned had always argued that telling Jon would mean having to make a ploy for the crown, but Jon never had ambitions like that. All Jon had wanted to know was who his mother was, who she had been and why she had given him up, because the boy had refused to believe that Ned would have stolen a child from its mother._

Maester Luwin comes back and finds him hunched over the letters. The maester seems surprised to find him still in the room. He isn’t sure how long the maester had been gone, but he had also been given next to nothing, so he should have completed his task very quickly. “Did you find anything helpful?”

He takes a breath to compose himself. “Potentially. Assuming nothing has changed recently, Princess Arianne is still unmarried. If Robb wanted, he could offer a betrothal in exchange for Dorne’s support in this conflict. The thing is, he would have to get someone to Dorne, because I’ve never heard of a betrothal arranged by raven.” It takes him a second to remember, but he does add, “And he would have to find a way out of his betrothal with the Freys. Or offer someone else, almost as influential.”

Luwin sends him a curious look. In retrospect, he’s probably said something that a lowly hedge knight should have no way of knowing, but he can’t find it in himself to care. “I’ll draft a recommendation to send to Robb.”

He nods his head and stands up. Before he hands the letters back to the maester, he surreptitiously slips Ashara’s letter out of the stack. He doubts the maester would even notice that it’s missing, considering how long it had taken for Luwin to even find the letters. He folds the letter between his fingers and quickly pockets it.

He’s almost out the door when Luwin speaks up. “Vorian,” he turns around slowly and raises an eyebrow at the man. If Luwin had caught him taking the letter, he’s impressed by the man’s willingness to call him out on it. “You said you have never heard of a betrothal arranged by raven. But plenty of betrothals have been introduced by whispering the idea of it to the right person. If you knew anyone who could get the word to one of Dorne’s princes, that would be very helpful.”

He tilts his head back and lets out a breath. “It’s been a long while, but if Robb decides he wants to go down this path, I’m sure I could think of someone.” When the maester doesn’t say anything else, he bows his head and leaves. _I’d have to reveal myself to do it and Ashara would be the only person I could convince into believing that it is truly me. If I could, I’d tell Jon who his parents were and then he could give the Starks a king with claim to all of Westeros. But I could only send a letter to the Night’s Watch and there is no guarantee they would give it to the boy._

_And even if I could tell him, declaring Jon king would put Sansa in even more danger. I could just tell Robb, but I won’t make that decision for Jon. It’s not something Jon would have ever considered for himself and I doubt a forced king would be a successful king._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone yells at me, all narrators are unreliable narrators. They only know what they know, they make assumptions about what they don't know, and sometimes their emotions get in the way of reason.


	21. Rhaenys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the spirit of Thanksgiving, thanks to all of you who read this story! Thanks for the views, kudos, and comments. And for all of you who have left comments and wonder if I read them, I do! I just don't have the mental bandwidth to answer all of you, but your words and interest are always appreciated.

She spends most of her days in the garden with Brightdawn. Her dragon prefers spending his time outside; sleeping in the sun and testing his wings by moonlight. She wonders if Brightdawn has picked up on the need for secrecy or if he just prefers the night. His dark scales seem helpful for night time activities and he seems to prefer skulking about and ambushing prey. But maybe that was just Balerion’s influence, the two got along well and Brightdawn liked following her cat around.

Brightdawn had also gotten along well with all the people allowed into the garden. He wasn’t as bold with them as he was with her, Brightdawn liked crawling all over her, but he had no issue approaching and interacting with others. Brightdawn liked clawing and grabbing onto Jaime’s arms, so much so that Jaime had taken to constantly wearing vambraces to protect his arms. With Ashara, he liked playing with the loose fabric of her clothes, batting at draped sleeves and rustling her skirts. With Oberyn, he liked to follow her uncle around hoping for treats, something her uncle had brought upon himself after tossing Brightdawn pieces of cooked meat once. And with her uncle Doran, Brightdawn liked to talk to the man, trilling and squawking at him as though they could communicate.

Even though Morgan had not come into her side of the castle, it hadn’t taken long for her to realize that her uncles had cleared the whole western wing of the Water Gardens for her, she had seen him around. She had seen him wandering around the main courtyard or walking alongside Ashara, but she hadn’t gotten the chance to speak with him. She couldn’t help but wonder if it was a coincidence that they hadn’t seen each other or if it was on purpose that they hadn’t had the chance to interact. _I don’t want to believe that the people around me are making decisions for me, but it has always been a possibility._

No one had spoken to her about her decision to not use her dragon as a weapon. Brightdawn was growing. It had been weeks since their meeting and Brightdawn had already gone from being slightly smaller than Balerion to being almost as large as her torso. It could be that they respected her decision, so much so that they wouldn’t question her on it, or that they were biding their time, maybe waiting to see if Brightdawn would even grow big enough to be a weapon or if she might change her mind on her own.

She considers asking Jaime, she doesn’t think, _wants to believe,_ that he wouldn’t lie to her, but even if he did she knows him well enough that’s she’s confident she could tell if he was lying. She sits on the question for a long while, feeling it dance on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn’t voice it. She isn’t sure if it’s because of cowardice, that she doesn’t want to ask because she doesn’t want to know if her fears were valid, or if it’s because of apathy, that regardless of whether or not people were trying to manipulate her she would stand firm on this and not change her answer. Instead she asks Jaime for a bow and quiver.

He doesn’t ask her what for, he just looks at her for a moment before walking off. He quickly returns with her requested item. He quietly murmurs that her original bow and been broken during the scuffle in her room, when he hands it over. It’s a shame, that bow had been a gift back from when they had gone to the Summer Islands, but she brushed the thought aside to focus on what she wanted to do.

She peers up at the sky above her little garden. Brightdawn had grown big enough that mice weren’t as filling as they used to be and both her dragon and her cat had done a good job of clearing this part of the castle of stray mice. Her guardians had taken to bringing him meals, but Brightdawn didn’t seem to enjoy pre-cooked meat and raw meat chunks as much as he enjoyed cooking and tearing apart his own meals. He still wasn’t bold enough to fully hunt on his own, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a fresh kill.

When a gull passes over their uncovered space, she steadies her hand and shoots the bird down. It’s a clean shot. The bird falls from the sky, lifeless far before it hits the ground. She moves towards the corpse to retrieve her arrow before her dragon goes to feast.

She pulls the arrow from the gull’s body and steps back when Brightdawn approaches. After inspecting the corpse, Brightdawn lets out a hot burst of flame cooking the bird, feathers and all. She goes back to her previous seat and watches him eat. _I had no issue killing a defenseless bird, but killing a man who wanted to kill me was too much._

The sound of footsteps kept her from think about that much longer. She turns away from Brightdawn tearing away at his meal to look at the person approaching. She spots Oberyn stepping out from under one of the archway with a piece of paper held in his hand. He spares a glance towards Brightdawn before moving to stand near her.

“What brings you here?”

Her uncle waves Jaime closer. “I come with news from the north. Do you want war news or gossip first?”

She turns to look at Jaime hovering next to her, a part of her wants to stand up considering how these two men loom over her. When he doesn’t react, she decides, “War news first.”

“We’ve received word that Tyrion Lannister has been made the new Hand of the King.” _That explains why Oberyn called Jaime over_. “We haven’t heard much about any actions he’s taken or what he has planned, but, officially, he is only acting hand until Lord Tywin arrives.”

“That’s probably true, but I’m sure he’s also there to temper Cersei. Tyrion has always been a thinker and the two of them have never gotten along, I’m sure he’s my father’s attempt to bring reason to King’s Landing until he’s finished quelling the riverlands.”

“Anything else?”

“There is. Stannis has declared himself as the rightful King of Westeros. And has made a bold claim to support it. Something that could have been quickly dismissed as false if it hadn’t come from such a stern man.” Her uncle hands her the paper in his hands and continues as she reads. “He claims that Joffrey, and all of his siblings, are not Robert’s children, but rather the product of incest between Cersei and another Lannister.”

“Did he name the Lannister?” She’s impressed by how little Jaime gives away with his body. It’s only because she knows him, and has gotten used to trying to read him with his mask on, that she knows he is upset.

“He names a Lancel Lannister. But my wording brings us to the gossip on the subject. You see, the public claims a different father. They claim that Jaime Lannister is Joffrey’s true father. That Tywin has kept Jaime hidden away, to keep from having to face the consequences of his kingslaying, and that Queen Cersei has taken advantage of that to do what she wants.”

“If you’re asking if I am the father, I’ll remind you have I’ve been in Essos for the past two decades.” This time, she does look over at Jaime, unable to stop how her eyebrow raises at his words. Oberyn was one of the few people who knew, without a doubt, that the rumor wasn’t true, there was no need for Jaime to sound so defensive. _Every rumor starts from a kernel of truth. Could it be that the truth of this rumor isn’t just the treason but something else entirely?_

Oberyn shrugs, a very causal gesture that immediately disarms any tension that could have been brewing. “To lend credence to Stannis’s claim, I’ve heard of a purge in King’s Landing headed by the Goldcloaks themselves. The Goldcloaks went through the city killing blue-eyed, black-haired bastards.”

Jaime says, “Robert’s bastards,” at the same time she says, “Purged?” She dislikes how both men turn to look at her at her question. Jaime doesn’t look straight at her but at somewhere past her head and his hands flutter, like he considered reaching out to her before deciding to cross them over his chest. Oberyn looks her right in the eye, like he’s evaluating her, like he’s trying to understand something about her.

“Killed. All of Robert’s suspected bastards. Likely ordered by Queen Cersei or King Joffrey, considering the Goldcloaks don’t act entirely on their own.”

“How many bastards did Robert have?”

“In King’s Landing? Maybe a dozen. Outside of King’s Landing? Somewhere between half a dozen or a dozen more.”

She looks down at the paper in her hands. “All of them killed,” she says softly, “so that they couldn’t be legitimized and used to contest the king’s claim.”

There is a moment of quiet after her words. In that time. Brightdawn finishes eating and forces himself onto Jaime’s arm, bullying the man into holding his arm out and away from his body. It makes Jaime look like a falconer. _I wonder how long it will be until Brightdawn can no longer cling to us._

She hands the letter back to her uncle and he breaks the silence. “Do you have any opinions on what Dorne should do, moving forward?”

“What is there to do but wait? This conflict is shaping into a war of kings, what strength would a queen coming late to the board have?”

\---

The next morning, Jaime isn’t there when she heads to the garden. It’s later in the day, she had spent a good part of the night watching Brightdawn fluttering around in the sky, so she isn’t that surprised that he isn’t there. It was rare that she got to spend so much time alone. They had cleared this whole wing of the castle, but the people who were allowed near her purposely hung around her so that she had little time alone.

She had drifted into the part of the castle where people set out food for her, before taking it back to her garden. Balerion had immediately come out of the bushes to try and charm her into giving him some of her squid, but Brightdawn had only woken up to come curl up by her feet. She spends her time waiting by entertaining herself with her companions.

The quiet leaves her to her own thoughts, especially when both her companions prefer sleeping during the day. She appreciates all the effort the people around her are putting in to keep her company, but she misses interacting with people near her age. She misses her cousins. She misses Obara’s brashness and the secondhand confidence she got just from being in the older woman’s presence. She misses Tyene’s composure and the calm the woman radiated. She misses Arianne’s charm and the way her cousin could get her out of her own head. She even misses her little cousins and how playful they all were with her.

She’s considering taking a nap when she hears someone approaching. She whips her head around and sees Jaime approaching, strangely bare-faced. His blond hair shines bright in the sunlight, like threads of gold. She notices that his skin has tanned. It is no longer the pale skin she remembers from her youth, but a light, sun-kissed brown. She can also see slight lines around his eyes. _He looks so different from what he looked like when we lived in Braavos. I wonder how much I’ve changed?_

He heads straight for her. There is no obvious sign as to why it took him so long to meet up with her, but she’s sure he had a good reason. She glances at the spread on the table in front of her and asks, “Do you want to see something interesting?”

“Always.”

She stands up from her seat and grabs a cup and pitcher of water. Her movement wakes up Brightdawn who trails curiously after her. She sets the cup on the floor and takes a step back. She looks Jaime in the eye before pouring water into the cup. There is a small waterfall of water as she pours the water from just slightly above her hip. There is a slightly awkward moment as she just pours water from an absurd height, but then there is a flash of movement.

Brightdawn, who had idled behind her, darts around her feet and lunges at the stream of water. There is a snap of teeth as Brightdawn tries to bite the water. The effort earns him a face full of water, some of which steams off the crest of his head. It makes a slight mess of water, which she adds to by pouring more water into the cup, forcing it to overflow. While the water flows, Brightdawn continues to try and snap at the water.

“I don’t know why he does it. He doesn’t have a problem with the fountain or the pool. He just… goes wild when I pour water and he can see it.”

“That is interesting.” There is something odd about Jaime’s voice. She stops making a mess of water and turns more fully towards him. Even without his face covering, he’s become harder to read. _It’s as though something about Westeros has made him withdraw._

He motions for her to sit back down. She fidgets with the pitcher of water in her hands as she moves towards her previous seat. After she puts the pitcher down, she presses her thumbs against her forefinger to keep from fretting. But the urge only grows stronger when, instead of sitting across from her like she expected, Jaime moves to kneel in front of her.

“Rhaenys,” he whispers. The only one who isn’t afraid to say her name in the emptiness. “Your uncle has asked me for a favor. To go north to Bitterbridge, where Renly is gathering his forces, and give him more information about what is happening there.”

A thousand thoughts rush through her head. The first is a large and overbearing, _he’s leaving me._ The next is a cycle between the knowledge that it was bound to happen and the fear of being left alone. There is a curl of shame, _she is an adult and she doesn’t need Jaime to defend her,_ there is a tinge of fear, _someone had tried to murder her not long ago,_ there is a sense of apprehension, _Jaime leaving her side was a definite sign that things were changing,_ there was a sense of trust, _her uncle wouldn’t risk her sworn shield needlessly,_ a sense of doubt, _her needless may not be the same as her uncle’s needless,_ and a number of other feeling she can’t get a hold of.

But as uncertainty licks at her mind, a fact crystalizes into clarity. _If I tell him not to go, he won’t._ She leans forward to rest her hand on his shoulder and pulls a smile onto her lips. “I’m sure you’ll succeed at whatever task my uncle assigns you.” And she can see Jaime’s eyes looking her over. Trying to see the doubt she reigns back into herself. The discomfort she stamps into nonexistence. The childish part of her that wants to beg him to stay, a part that she locks away behind the perfect mask she has created.

When he doesn’t find what he is looking for he nods his head. She feels her breath push out of her lungs. She appreciates that Jaime didn’t push the issue, she doesn’t know if she has the resolve to make the same decision again. Instead of dwelling on it, she presses him for all the details he can give her.


	22. Jaime

The sun feels odd on his face after having spent so much time with it hidden. He reaches up to scratch at his cheek and finds his fingers unhindered by fabric. He’s also aware of how much stronger everything seems to smell. He hadn’t noticed that his face wrap had filtered so many scents, but now he is struck by how briny the scent of the sea breeze is and by the sweetness wafting off the orange trees.

The smell reminds him of his time working as a dockworker in Volantis. He had hated that city with a passion, and does his best to try and forget his time there, but he had experienced some enjoyable things in the city. One of those had been the easy sense of comradery he had experienced working at the docks. To those men, he hadn’t been a lord’s son and heir to some great house, but just a man working alongside them. Someone who could be relied on to do his duty and who was willing to pick up the slack when others weren’t doing well.

It had taken some time for him to become that man. He had struggled briefly in Braavos, he had been too used to having things done for him for him to just pick up a random trade. He had been fortunate enough to find someone looking for a sword master, who was then willing to let him bumble through more mundane tasks for extra money. It was under that man’s employment that he had learned that, even if he wasn’t good at something, as long as he pretended to be eager to help, people would be pleased with him.

He’d have to bring that man back for what they were going to do. He couldn’t be Jaime Lannister or Erwin Hill at Bitterbridge. He’d have to be another man. Another persona to add to the bunch. _Though, when have I ever truly been myself?_

He turns at the sound of the gate guard calling out. Prince Oberyn had summoned Ser Daemon from Sunspear for this excursion, trusting his once squire with the secrecy of this trip. While he and Morgan were going to Bitterbridge, to see the true strength of Renly’s army, Oberyn and Daemon were going to Highgarden, to clandestinely meet with the heir of the Reach.

He watches for a moment, as Morgan walks forward to greet his fellow bastard, before leaving for where he knows Prince Oberyn to be. Assuming Daemon had come prepared, they would leave as soon as this afternoon. Last he had seen, the prince had commandeered a room near the main courtyard to see to his last preparations for the trip. He knocks against the wood of the door and waits until Oberyn gives him the okay to enter.

He enters and finds the prince standing, hunched over a map. Oberyn spares him a glance, before going back to what he was doing. He’s surprised by the prince’s attire. Oberyn wasn’t the most ostentatious in his dress, but he was usually seen in, obviously, well-made clothes. Now the prince has traded down for something more humble and well-worn. It seemed the prince planned on hiding the fact that he was even traveling.

Oberyn makes a few marks on his map, likely planning a travel route. “What is it?”

“Ser Daemon has arrived.”

“Good. The sooner we can leave the better.” The prince looks up from the map and asks, “Do you know where the Tor or Ghost Hill are?”

“No.”

Oberyn nods and waves him over. The prince taps his finger against the table. “Ghost Hill,” he says, pointing to a place on the coast of the Sea of Dorne and near the Broken Arm. He moves his finger west. “The Tor,” he says, pointing to another place on the coast of the Sea of Dorne, but this location is closer to the center of Dorne and near the Greenblood.

“Why do I need to know this?”

“You and Morgan are to pretend to be hedge knights, but, if you need to be someone, pretending to be Dornish nobility is likely to protect you. Renly has not asked for Dorne’s assistance, he believes he doesn’t have to, but since he hasn’t it would be unwise for him to punish Dornish knights who volunteered since it would make Dorne less likely to come to him freely.”

“And what house would I be a part of?”

“You can be a minor member of House Jordayne or a minor member of House Toland. Both are close to the stormlands, so both would have heard of Renly’s gathering forces and close enough for minor members to be willing to travel to join, even though their house hasn’t declared its support.”

“Which would you recommend?”

“Either is fine. I suggested these because they have less contact with the north than House Wyl or Fowler, so people are less likely to doubt your claim or ask questions you don’t have answers to. And you can keep the name Erwin for either.” The prince pauses for a moment. “With brown hair, you look more Jordayne than Toland.” They had dyed his hair yesterday. Rhaenys had insisted on doing it herself, he had sat through her meticulous ministrations as she carefully erased all the gold of his hair. His pack had been equipped with more dye for him to hide his roots during the excursion.

He nods his head. Jordayne sounded like the reasonable choice. He turns to leave, but the prince calls out. “Wait a moment. I have something I need to discuss with you.”

He turns back around and faces the prince. He runs his tongue against the back of his teeth as he watches Oberyn begin rolling and putting away the maps. It’s an unnecessarily slow process. Oberyn meticulously seals each map and sets them aside in an obviously thought-out place. _If he’s hoping to make me sweat, he’s forgetting who my father was. Father had no issue calling me into his solar after I had done something wrong and sitting in silence until I confessed all my sins to him._

“She’s not what I expected her to be.” Oberyn is turned away from him, fiddling with a pack prepped for travel. The prince doesn’t turn to look at him when he continues. “I had only met her once, as a baby, and Elia’s letters painted the picture of a mischievous little girl. But that’s so little to build a fantasy on.”

“A fantasy?” _I shouldn’t be asking. This is something I don’t want to know._

Oberyn turns slightly. Enough so that he can catch the edge of a melancholic smile. “Did you not wonder? What the world could have been like if things had been a little different?” _No. I try not to._ “Long before you brought her home, I wondered what her children could have been like. If they all had lived.”

 _I don’t want to talk about this._ “She is.” He forces his hands to keep still, even though a part of him want to clasp them behind his back. “She is mischievous. She just… hasn’t settled into who she thinks she’s supposed to be.”

“That’s not surprising.” Oberyn turns to look at him fully. The smile from earlier is gone. “Not a lady. Not a bastard. Dealing with the unique circumstances of being a noble, Dornish bastard. All while secretly being a princess. Who could one day be queen.” He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. “And yet, it hasn’t keep her from being who she is.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. He had always been confident that cunning was a Martell trait. _I had always thought that probing questions was something she had learned from her mother and Prince Lewyn. Maybe it’s just something about the Martell blood._ “How so?”

“It’s obvious she has no appetite for war. At first, I thought it was her being cautious. Maybe her emulating or following Doran’s lead. But she’s been presented two opportunities, and could have pushed for more, yet she hasn’t.”

“There haven’t been any promising prospects for Dorne on the warfront.” He’s well-versed enough in conversations with Rhaenys to recognize that this is a throw away question. His answer to this question doesn’t matter, because the question was only set-up for the true question.

“One could begin to wonder if she wants to be queen.”

Hightower would be proud of how effectively he clamped down on any reactions. The man had always said that he was too expressive. Gave too much away. Judged too much. But, in this moment, he doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t twitch. He doesn’t even let his face wrinkle. _She doesn’t want to be queen. In fact, she’s worried for years that the Iron Throne would be the death of her._

“Her primary interest in returning to Westeros has always been reconnecting with her family.” It’s not a lie, but it’s also not an answer. Ideally, Oberyn will interpret this answer as an attempt to explain her behavior. But he could also interpret the answer as a confirmation.

The man nods immediately, giving him no clue as to how Oberyn has decided to interpret his answer. “I should go speak to Daemon.” The prince waves his hand towards the door. “Make sure your things are ready. We leave as soon as everything is ready.”

He nods his head and turns to leave. This time, there is no voice calling out to him as he leaves. There was no one to look at him as he walked back to his room. The level of secrecy the Martells were able was impressive. He had never caught servants trying to sneak around or guards trying to find excuses to patrol the isolated area. He doubted if even his father could manage this level of obedience.

But that was only one thing among a world of differences. The servants he had seen in Sunspear and the Water Gardens didn’t fear their lords like those of Casterly Rock feared his father. The Martells spoke to their servants differently, made requests instead of demands. When Oberyn made jokes, Doran humored his brother, instead of sending him haughty scowls. He had seen the Martells hug on several occasions in the past year he had been in Dorne, yet he couldn’t think of a single occurrence where his father hugged someone in the seventeen years before he left.

He keeps thinking about it as he goes to check his things. As he checks to make sure Brightroar is properly hidden among his things. As he waits to be summoned to the gate. As the summon comes and he walks through the halls.

As he closes in on the main courtyard he notes that space is empty of children. It was around the time for dinner, so he wouldn’t be surprised if they had used that as an excuse to hide their departure. He steps up to stand alongside Morgan and Daemon when he feels something press against his leg. He turns down and sees Balerion press against his shin, attempting to gain his attention.

He lifts Balerion and looks the cat in the eye. Balerion slowly blinks at him. His gold eyes feel like they are looking into his soul. After a moment of staring at him, Balerion leans forward and presses his cold nose against the skin of his cheek. He cradles the cat in his elbow when he hears other approach.

Prince Oberyn was approaching, along with his brother, Lady Ashara, Rhaenys, and the captain of the guard. Ser Daemon splits off to speak with the princes, Ashara goes to speak with her son, and Rhaenys steps over to him.

He’s about to say something, but before he gets the chance Rhaenys throws her arms around his neck. He adjusts his arm to make sure they aren’t squishing Balerion and wraps his other arm around her waist to squeeze her back.

“I’ll miss you,” she whispers into his ear.

“I’ll be back.”

“I know you will.” She hangs on to him a little longer. Her breath causes the hair by his ear to stir and tickle his ear, but he refuses to be the first to let go.

Eventually, she draws back. She rocks back on her heels to give him a little bit of space. He hands over her cat and says, “I won’t miss this dreadful thing.”

She takes back Balerion. She raises an eyebrow at him and shakes her head, but she doesn’t say anything in response.

Lady Ashara steps over and touches Rhaenys on the arm. The princess takes the sign for what it is and steps over to speak with Morgan. He can’t hear what they are saying from this distance, but he is sure they are saying their farewells.

“Take care of her,” he says before Ashara gets the chance to say anything.

She shoots him an unamused look and huffs. “Nothing will happen to her here.”

“I didn’t mean physically. I know nothing is going to hurt her here. I meant emotionally. She’s withdrawn since the… event.”

Ashara looks at him and nods her head. She reaches out to touch his arm. “Take care of yourself.”

He bobs his head and steps away to load his horse. Next to him, Daemon is doing the same and, after a moment, Morgan steps up to his own horse. The three of them go through their things to make sure that everything they need is there. Daemon prepares, what he assumes to be, Oberyn’s horse, before reporting to the prince that everything is ready.

He turns and sees Rhaenys pressing a kiss to her uncle’s cheek. Oberyn reaches out to slightly ruffle her hair before joining them at the horses. He motions for them to mount and none of them say anything as they rise up onto their horses. At Oberyn’s signal, the guards open the gates so that they can ride out.

He turns back to look at the crowd as they wait. Rhaenys stands between her uncle and Ashara, with Balerion held in her arms. Again, he can’t help but think of his own family and how he’s never seen them do this. His family had never stood by the gate to watch him leave, instead he had needed to seek them out individually so that they could say farewell. Tyrion had been the only one to ever see him off at the gate. _I had always thought of my family as normal. And my glimpse into the life of the Targaryens was never happy. But maybe this is what a proper family should look like._


	23. Rhaenys

She wanders into the more inhabited parts of the castle now that Jaime is gone. She didn’t like spending too much time alone and it was unfair to ask Doran and Ashara to spend so much time with her. So now, she goes into the main courtyard and speaks to the children, or she stands on a terrace and listens to them play, waving at the few of them who spot her, and she eats in the dining hall, surrounded by the noise of everyone else. _I wonder what these people think. Of the mysterious high-born woman who steps out during the day to interact with them and disappears at night._

Her companions don’t mind the change. Balerion followed her around when he liked, but her cat wasn’t who she was worried about. But her fears were unfounded. Brightdawn didn’t mind that she wasn’t spending the morning with him; he didn’t act out for attention, didn’t destroy anything, didn’t seem mad at her. Her dragon would spend most of that time sleeping anyways, so, when she came back to find him still sleeping, she assumed that’s what he was doing while she was gone.

She felt like Brightdawn was growing more independent. He was beginning to fly up onto the roof and high into the sky. He was even starting to chase birds on his own. She still shot down most of what he ate, but, even then, he was starting to pull them out of the air, instead of waiting for them to fall down.

Yesterday, he had even caught his own meal, after growing impatient with her. Brightdawn understood that it was time to eat when she pulled her bow and quiver out and grew excited at the sight of her holding it. She had carefully watched the sky, scrutinizing any bird that crossed over their space. She had homed in on a black bird, something that looked like a magpie or a jackdaw, when a sparkle of light caught her eye. While those types of bird where known for stealing things that caught their interest, she had stilled her hand because this shine wasn’t caught in the bird’s claws, but seemed attached to its leg. She watched until the bird left her field of view and she could have sworn that the shine came from something that looked like a message tube.

But Brightdawn hadn’t understood the cause of her hesitation. So, the next bird who flew over, a gull common to this area, found itself ambushed and brought out of the sky. Brightdawn had sped up and over the bird, before diving down over it, killing it with a swift bite to the back of the neck. Her dragon had presented it to her, much like Balerion would have if this had been his kill, before cooking it up and tearing away.

_How much longer before he starts to hunt completely on his own? How much longer until he tries to leave the castle?_ She decides that it’s a problem for another day, as she arrives to where she wanted to spend the day.

She decided that, today, she would sit on her favorite terrace. This terrace looked over the main courtyard, allowing her to oversee the merriment of the children below. It was also above a grouping of orange trees, which meant that she could pluck sweet oranges from the tops of the trees. She liked coming here to read, sitting at a table covered by the shade of the trees. She enjoyed the peace of the space and the subtle sound of children laughing.

She’s attempting to make a dent into the book Ashara had lent her. The book, named _When Women Ruled_ , was thicker than her arm and the kind of thing that could take a lifetime to get through, if the reader was willing to stick with it that long. And, while she found the subject infinitely interesting, it wasn’t written in the most interesting fashion. She also didn’t miss the message in the lending of this book, _and how could she with how obviously heavy-handed that message was._

She’s about a hundred pages into the book, the clump of read pages is about as thick as her little finger. The text is disappointingly light on Dornish women, but that could be because of the separation between Dorne and the rest of Westeros or because of how common it was for women to rule in Dorne. Aside from that oversight, the author seemingly missed no detail. She skims over extensive tax details, eagerly reads through the reconstruction of towns, and pays morbid attention to the sections on the wars these women participated in.

After a particularly lengthy section discussing the tariffs Lady Johanna used to ensure House Lannister’s survival, she decided it was time for a break. She sets the book down and walks over to the balcony. It’s a warm day, not so hot that it is sweltering, but not so cool that anyone drenched in water would feel chilled, which meant that the children were outside in full force.

A few of them spot her on her perch. A smaller number wave at her, mostly bold little girls who had found her mysterious, and she waves back at each of them. She then scans the oranges in her reach. She picks off a nice, plump one and takes it back to her table. She sets the book aside, just in case she makes a mess.

She sinks her nails into the skin and begins to peel. Fortuitously, the peel comes off in one long piece. She carefully pulls off juicy sections of the orange, aware that one wrong move would mean making a mess, but the effort is worth it. With each section she pops into her mouth, there is an explosion of sweet flavor.

Her little fruity respite is interrupted by the subtle creak of wheels. Her uncle’s arrival was made obvious by the sound of the chair he used to travel in. His ever-present watcher, Areo Hotah, walked in silently behind him. If it weren’t for Areo’s perfect, straight-back posture, it would look like the guard was looming over her uncle. Doran nods to her in greeting and comes over to her table. Areo breaks away to stand guard in the doorway.

“Do you enjoy blood oranges?”

She nods her head and hastily finishes what she was eating. “They were the first thing I ate when we arrived at Dorne. They remind me of the feeling of coming home.”

“I am glad, that Dorne feels like home. It has been waiting for you a long time.”

She wipes her fingers on her handkerchief. The juice from the orange leaves bright red spots on the pale fabric. “I sat on the edge of a fountain and thought ‘this is where my mother would want me to be’.”

“That is true. Before your brother was born she came here. If it had been up to her I don’t think she would have left.”

They sit in silence for a moment. The sound of the children playing fills the air, but no words pass between them. Her uncle seems lost in memories and she is waiting. When he doesn’t say anything else, she says, “If I may be blunt, why are you here, uncle?”

He pulls out a letter from somewhere on his person. He hands the paper to her. The red wax immediately catches her attention. “It’s an offer from Lord Tyrion on behalf of the crown.”

She pours through the text. Her brow wants to furrow, but she holds back the reaction. Such an obvious tell would not serve her. _Lord Tyrion’s handwriting is so precise. Even spaced and easy to read._ “This feels less like an attempt at an alliance and more like an attempt to buy Dorne’s indifference.”

“I’m sure he, and the rest of Westeros, assumes that we will be joining Renly’s forces.”

“So, while he’d be hard-pressed to get us to fight for the crown, he could keep us from fighting against them.” She takes a breath. “He didn’t name Elia’s killer, only that they would be delivered.”

“Most people do not know who killed her. It has taken a lot of work for Oberyn to work out who it was. And even then, he has no proof, only hearsay.” _Until we gave it to them. But that proof is unusable without revealing myself and Jaime._ “Still, this offer would be enough for Oberyn.”

_Is this Lord Tyrion’s attempt to protect Clegane? Or has he worded it this way because he may not be able to offer up Clegane?_ “There is no guarantee here.” _And yet, even I am tempted to accept. A chance to kill the monster who took everything from me, who haunts my dreams, is not one easily ignored._

“No. There is not.” While her uncle sounds melancholic, she can sense that she will get no more from pursuing this conversation.

“Offering Myrcella safeguards us from betrayal,” even if the thought of using this unknown girl as a hostage made her stomach roil, “yet she would not protect them from us. Nowhere does it say that the betrothal would mean swearing ourselves to Joffrey. It’s implied, but, not necessary.”

“That is true.”

She hands the letter back to her uncle. “It would leave us free to declare war whenever we like. It would keep us from current alliances, but those were already slim and it would give us the time to see how things play out.” _With a hostage for later._

He looks at her. His gaze is thoughtful and assessing. “Join me, on the balcony.” She stands and follows him to the space. A breeze ruffles her hair and the edge of her skirt. She looks out. The scene hasn’t changed much for what she saw a few minutes ago. A few children have moved to a new location, some of them had taken up a new activity, but nothing has really changed.

“When you look out, what do you see?”

She blinks and casts her eyes over the crowd again. “Children?”

“And can you pick out which ones are nobles? Which are smallfolk?”

“Just from watching them? No. I could name a few, but only because I have spoken to them. The noble ones are quick to tell you where they come from.”

She sees the wisp of a smile come over her uncle’s face. “Once, Princess Daenerys stood on one of these terraces and realized she could not tell the two apart. That they were all children; vulnerable and deserving of long life, love, and protection. ‘This is your realm,’ she told her son and heir, ‘remember them, in everything you do.’ Her son told his heir and then they told theirs. And the chain continued until my mother stood here with me, years ago, and told me the same.”

She casts her eyes back over the crowd. She takes in the smaller children, maybe five years old, building castles in the sand, she takes in the older children, on the cusp of adulthood, basking in the sun, and she takes in everyone in between. A girl notices her watching and waves up at her. _I am responsible for her. And if I become queen I will responsible for all the little girls like her across Westeros._

“It’s easy for a prince to call his spears and go to war,” her uncle continues, “but it’s the children who suffer the most. They’re the ones who live; having lost fathers, and mothers, and homes. A wise prince will not commit his people to a senseless or unwinnable war.”

“There is no way to truly know if a war is pointless or unwinnable until after you have committed to the war,” _something my father learned the hard way,_ “all we can do is gather the advantages we can until it is time for us to make our entrance.”

“You believe that entering this conflict is unavoidable?”

She turns to look at her uncle. “It’s not something I believe. It’s something I know. The only reason Dorne and the Iron Islands have avoided having to make a choice is because they are separate from most of Westeros. But the Starks will go to the Islands, if they haven’t already, and they will have to make a choice. And there will come a time where the crown will no longer be satisfied with just our indifference and then we will have to make a choice.”

Her uncle let out a sigh. “As much as I want to disagree, you are right.” He waves back at her table and they drift back that way.

While she sits down, her uncle does not arrange himself at the table. “We will have to hold off on sending a response until after Oberyn comes back. Someone will have to go to King’s Landing to see through the deliverance of Elia’s killer. And I am not in a position to travel.”

She nods her head. As her uncle head for the doorway, she pulls over her book. She flips through the pages, back to the section she left off at. It takes her a moment to notice that the squeak of wheels has stopped too early. She looks up and finds Doran idling in the doorway.

“I know we have been pushing you into certain decisions. But I want you to know that we aren’t doing this because of birthrights, ambition, or revenge. Oberyn and I are doing this because we see in you the potential to become a great queen.” And with that, her uncle turns and leaves.


	24. Jaime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a longer one that took forever to write! As a heads up, I will be taking two weeks off for the holidays since I will be doing things with family and don't know how much I'll be able to write. I hope y'all stick around for next year and I guarantee that I will be back Jan 9.   
> I hope you have happy holidays!

Oberyn had them ride fast and hard, but it still took a month to reach past the Red Mountains. If they had looked like important people before, they definitely don’t look it now. They only stopped riding if they need rest or if the horses needed rest and, considering they were traveling in secret, they hadn’t stopped at many settlements. For most of their journey, they had slept outside, huddled around a small camping site that they learned to set up and take down in minutes.

They cross over the mountains at Prince’s Pass. After that, they strafed west towards a town at the end of the Torrentine. There they had traded their sand steeds for coursers and prepared to part ways. Oberyn and Daemon were headed for Highgarden, while he and Morgan were headed for Bitterbridge. They had spent a day in that town, resupplying and getting a good night’s rest and then the next morning they split ways.

He and Morgan traveled towards Bitterbridge at a much more reasonable pace. They could attract unwanted attention if they arrived at the encampment looking rushed and hasty. The over two weeks it took to reach Bitterbridge were filled with Morgan lecturing him on things he should know about House Jordayne, general chatter on what they would be looking for in Renly’s army, and sparring.

The first time they had sparred, it had been his suggestion. It had been their first night camping alone and he could only take so much inactivity. So, under the pretense of making sure he wasn’t out of practice, he suggested that they cross swords. Morgan had looked at him for a second, before shrugging and accepting.

They had created a little arena for themselves and had squared off. There had been a moment of silence as they faced off. For a moment, as he stood across from Morgan, his sword held out in front of him, he was transported into the past, facing off against Ser Arthur. He felt like he was fifteen again, testing his mettle against Arthur, who was known for never making the first move. Even though Morgan bore little physical resemblance to Arthur, it seemed his nephew had inherited his patience.

Once the nostalgia became too much for him, he moved in for the first strike. That first session had been a lot of testing; testing to see what type of strike their opponent preferred, how quickly they reacted, if they had a blind spot, if they favored a side, and a hundred other things. It was after they got a feel for each other, that their sparing sessions became more interesting.

Morgan was good. He has seen Morgan spar in Sunspear and, while his form had looked good, there was no way to truly know how good of a swordsman someone was until locking swords with them. Not only did Morgan have good form, the boy had a good balance of strength and speed, but, most importantly, Morgan tended to be unpredictable.

Even the best of swordsmen became easy to defeat when he fell too obviously into a pattern. A good swordsman learned how to read his opponent and, if that opponent fell into the comfort of a routine, learned to exploit that repetition. Morgan’s greatest strength was his ability to avoid repetition without compromising his form. While already a threat, if the boy could get faster and stronger, he could become a great knight.

The day before they arrived in Bitterbridge, they agree to a more relaxed spar. They hadn’t run into anyone yet, but that would change tomorrow, and they didn’t want to give away any information about themselves that they didn’t have to. The exercise goes fast and they sit around their campfire afterward, trading wineskins for a couple of drinks. When the silence become too much for him, he eyes Morgan’s sword belt and asks, “Why don’t you use those daggers when we spar?”

Morgan looks down at his belt and unsheathes the dagger with the wide guard, a parrying dagger, “This one is for defense. But you’re strikes are too strong and, while I _am_ faster than you, I am not fast enough to effectively parry you.” He puts that dagger away and unsheathes the other one tucked behind it. This one is thinner, longer, and something he recognizes from his time in Myr, a stiletto dagger. “This one is for doing damage and that seems impolite for a friendly spar.”

He huffs out a fake laugh as Morgan puts the blade away. “You ever used those?”

“Outside of a spar? No.” Even though he question hadn’t been all that polite, Morgan answers good-naturedly. Morgan’s next words, though, are full of cheek. “There hasn’t been war in a decade. And it’s been even longer since there’s been a war Dorne was interested in participating in.”

“Fair enough,” he concedes. While he’s interested in how much he’d have to push to fluster Morgan, he aware that now isn’t the time or the place.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why is it that you are so fast? Most knights overvalue strength and let speed fall by the wayside.”

“By most knights, I’m guessing you aren’t including Dornish knights.”

Morgan looks down at the wineskin like he’s considering chugging it down, before letting out a chest heaving sigh. “Most Dornish men-at-arms teach the spear, which requires speed more than strength, both to teach balance and to uphold Rhoynar tradition. The mountain lords tend to shirk tradition, but southern lords are definitely more dedicated to the spear and, by association, it’s speed.”

He’s pretty sure he only got that answer to help with the ruse that he is from Dorne. Following Morgan’s lead, he puts away his wineskin. “In Essos, there are fighting dens, where they pit fighters against each other for entertainment and gambling. They gave us blunted weapons and we, usually, weren’t trying to wound each other, but every fighter has a natural sense of competition and we earned more if we put up a good fight. After facing so many bravos, even the dullest knight would learn to appreciate speed.”

“You were a pit fighter? Like those in the Slaver Cities?” Morgan’s voice is thick with disbelief, but it brings a smile to his face. He remembers how indignant Naro, the man who owned the whole affair, would grow when people implied the same thing.

He thinks back to the speech he heard dozens of times, so much so that he, and all the other permanent workers, had been able to recite it by heart. “It was a fighting _den,_ not a fighting _pit,”_ he explains. “The combat in fighting _pits_ is a blood sport where slaves are brought to draw blood and bleed, solely for the entertainment of the crowd. The combat in a fighting _den_ is,” _a more sophisticated and philosophical sport,_ is how the speech usually went, “more like an exhibition of skills between willing participants, or glorified sparring,” he adds, just like the staff used to when Naro was met with blank looks, “that was meant for gambling, just as much as entertainment. What I did involved a lot less blood and chaos and was more a calculated performance.”

They spend a bit longer talking; Morgan asks him some more questions and he reminisces about his time in Braavos, before he beds down and Morgan sets us to take first watch. This close to Renly’s encampment, taking watch has less to do with fear of bandits and more to do with habit. As though to reinforce that, the night passes without issue. They ride out early, to finally arrive at their destination.

The reach the encampment by midday. Some knight rides out to interrogate them. Morgan tells the knight that they are hedge knights from some location near the north of the Torrentine and, after a few more useless questions, the man escorts them in.

He only half listens to what the man tells them. Most of his focus is towards appraising the encampment. He ignores the banners shifting in the breeze, _Oberyn had said that he could name every lord here,_ and the immediate movement of people. He was here to take in numbers and strength, so instead he focuses on the larger, more telling things across the horizon. He tries to count cookfires, scans over the pavilions to attempt at calculating the number of men inside them, and makes a note of the siege engines sitting in the grass, already built.

Their escort leaves them to settle among the other hedge knights. Assuming Renly’s encampment followed the general rules of encampment: the king would sit near it’s center; there would then be the circle of nobles, their necessity and proven combat readiness meaning they got to be near the king; then the circle of hedge knights, not as trusted as nobles but their assumed competency kept them in a central ring; then the circle of common soldiers, smallfolk who were mostly untrained but eager to fight; and maybe a circle for a guard, but this army seemed too large for that to be practical. Their escort leaves after giving them a rough layout of the encampment. He and Morgan prepare their space, go through their plans one last time, and then split off to get to work.

The first part of the plan is easy and it only takes a couple of hours. They drift through the camp taking note of supplies, equipment, and weaponry. He makes a list of that information in High Valyrian, _Rhaenys’s instance on me also learning how to read and write the language finally paid off_ , and squirrels the list away with his sword. Their exploration reveals that Renly’s army is very well equipped. If the army wasn’t so large it would be enough to last a smaller army several years.

The next two parts of the plan go hand in hand and are significantly harder than the first. The second part of their plan was to try and get an estimate on the size of the army and the third part was trying to understand the strength of the army. Renly had amassed too much for either of those to be easy. Even a small army required noncombatants for upkeep; cooks for meals, teamsters to manage animals, grooms to watch over horses, healers for injuries, pages to run messages, carpenters to build siege weapons, and a dozen other jobs that swelled the camp’s numbers. They decided that the best way to get a feel for numbers and strength is to integrate themselves with the army. They also decide that integration could help with the fourth, tentative, part of their plan, discovering what Renly had planned.

He has an easier time integrating than Morgan. He comes up with a story about being a career soldier who served as a hedge knight during the Rebellion, went to work as a mercenary in Essos, and then came back to serve Renly. With the way his story reads, most people have the good sense not to ask what side he served on in the Rebellion; instead they focus on the luck of having an obviously experienced soldier on their side.

Morgan has a harder time being taken seriously, even though Morgan is a man grown, the soldiers around him insist that he is still a boy. Instead of letting the assumption bother him Morgan accepts the patronizing easily enough and he has an easier time gathering information because of it, since people are more willing to lecture him on what he should know. Not every lecture is useful, much less important, but sometimes there was something worth noting.

They do interact during the day, but it isn’t until nightfall that they talk about their information gathering. They speak in hushed tones as they go through all the things they’ve memorized in the day, even the things they think are unusable are stored away in case they connect to something else. In weeks of being there, they very quickly learned that Renly is camped on the Roseroad in an attempt to starve King’s Landing, but not much past that. They don’t learn how Renly plans to deal with Stannis’s superior claim; they don’t know much about why Renly is hosting a tourney, aside for entertainment; and they are slowly putting together Renly’s numbers. They’ve heard people brag that Renly has gathered more than a hundred thousand men with most of them being knights, a claim that is obviously false; that the army is made up of seventy thousand men with fifty thousand knights, something that feels like an exaggeration but could be true; or that there were sixty thousand men with thirty thousand knights, which was too few men but a reasonably number of knights.

They also learn an ungodly amount of gossip. They learn things that could be useful but have no way of confirming, like that Queen Margaery’s bride sheet came away clean. They learn things that don’t really matter, like which minor lords are sleeping with camp followers. They learn a bit about the status of the rival kings, like that the crown has only seen meager support. They also learned about the moral standing of Renly’s army.

He’s sharpening his sword one night, when Morgan comes back to their space steaming mad. Morgan doesn’t look much different from his usual stoic self, but, he’s learned to read the man in the time they have spent together, he can tell from Morgan’s white-knuckled grip on his sword belt and the rigid line of his back that Morgan is angry. Morgan cools down as they wait for people wandering nearby to pass, but steams right back up when they get to discussing what they’ve learned today.

He hasn’t even heard whispers of something to warrant this reaction, so he calmly asks, “What have you discovered?”

“There’s a warrior maid here,” he opens his mouth but Morgan pushes on in a hissing whisper, “and too many lords are participating in a wager to see which of them can be the first to take her maidenhead.” Morgan turns his head to the side and spits into the dirt, as though the words themselves were tainted and he needed to cleanse himself of them.

He felt like he should say something, but words escaped him. He doesn’t think Morgan even noticed his silence, just used the moment to gather his breath. “Do you know how many times I had to grin and bear it as Marcher lords nudged me with their arms and made jokes about Dornish lasciviousness? How I had to bite at my cheek and smile as they talked about how seductive and wanton Dornish women are or as they joked about the dishonorable, Dornish men who take whoever pleases them? Hypocrites, every last one of them! This lady doesn’t want them. That’s part of the _allure_ of it.” The words come out in an angry, scornful growl.

Morgan looks him in the eye and all he can think is, _this is what it takes to make Morgan mad._ “I’ll tell you what I’ve learned about _King_ Renly,” the mocking inflection on Renly’s title tells him all he needs to know about Morgan’s opinion, “the man is either incompetent or complicit. Either he doesn’t know what is happening in his own camp or he doesn’t care, and I can’t tell you which is worse.”

The rant leaves Morgan panting. The angry puffs of air are the only thing that fills the silence until he asks, “This woman is a lady? Do you know who she is?”

Morgan swipes his hand through his hair and nods. “Lady Brienne of Tarth, also known as the maid of Tarth. From what I remember of my mother’s research, she is the heir of House Tarth and was born the same year Princess Elia was married.” _That means she is the same age as Rhaenys._ “House Tarth was quick to declare for Renly and she has come to fight for him. Aside from that, I don’t think there is much to know.”

The report diffuses most of Morgan’s anger. There isn’t much they can do for the lady. They’re trying not to gather too much attention and whatever was happening was bound to lead into some type of scandal. It doesn’t sit right with either of them, but they are here for a reason. He puts the rant out of his head until several days later.

He’s wandering around the camp much later than he usually does. He had managed to sit with a drunk knight, loyal to Lord Rowan, who had been eager to boast about the numbers Rowan had brought with him. He had stayed with the man past nightfall, because the numbers the man suggested sounded reasonable. He’s stumbling through the camp when he comes across a scene.

It takes him a moment to understand what is happening. He sees a knight dressed in silver march up to a knight dressed in blue. There is something about the intensity of the approach that makes him stop to watch what is happening. The knight in blue tilts their head to the side, seemingly more confused than worried. The silver knight gets close to the blue knight, much closer than should be necessary, before seizing the blue knight by the face to _kiss them?_ The blue knight lets out, a decidedly feminine, noise of surprise and it’s enough for him to assume what is happening.

He takes a step towards the pair. He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do, but he has the distinct feeling that he should do _something_. Before he gets the chance to figure out what that something is, the blue knight, Brienne, plants her hands on the silver knight’s chest and shoves him back. The man rolls back into the fire that was burning behind him; though, he does manage to move fast enough to avoid being burned. When the man stands back up, looking like he wants to finish what he started, he steps into the light of the fire, with his hand on the pommel of his sword, and says, “I think you should move along.”

The man looks at him for a moment, as though weighing his chance in a fight, _a fight I definitely can’t afford to have,_ before storming off. He takes his hand off his sword and turns to take a look at Lady Brienne.

The lady may be the same age as Rhaenys and she may wield a sword like Rhaenys, but that is where the similarities end. Brienne feels like the opposite of Rhaenys is so many ways. To begin with, he has to tilt his head up to get a look at Brienne’s face, _I haven’t met many taller than me, much less women taller than me._ Brienne has pale, freckled skin, where Rhaenys has smooth, golden skin; her hair is short and blonde, where Rhaenys’s is long and dark; her nose is long and crooked, where Rhaenys’s is straight and sharp; her eyes were bright and blue, where Rhaenys’s were dark and violet. _But both of them have eyes like gemstones._

She doesn’t say anything to him. Just stands there looking lost and confused and wary. He has to wonder if she’s wary of him or the man who just tied to force himself on her. He clears his throat and her eyes sharpen with focus. She still looks lost and confused, but more thoughtful than wary. “You must be Brienne, the maid of Tarth. You _are_ still a maiden, I hope?”

Her whole face turns an unflattering shade of red. Confusion gives way to anger and horror. “Yes.”

“Good,” he says, feeling awkward, “I only rescue maidens.” He had meant to be more tactful, but when he opened his mouth those were the words that came out. She doesn’t say anything to that, just stares at him like she’s trying to make sense of him.

He shifts where he stands, wondering if he should say something else or just leave. He’s still deliberating what he should so, when she speaks. “Why did he do that?” The words are so quiet he isn’t sure if he was supposed to hear them.

Morgan’s words come back to him. _‘Part of the allure is that she doesn’t want them.’ Not only does she not want them, she doesn’t even know why they are interested in her._ “They have a wager,” he says, before he can overthink the decision, “to see who can claim your maidenhead. You should report it to Renly. Before they get more… forceful.”

The red quickly drains from her face, leaving behind blanched skin. “They were knights,” she says, “anointed knights.”

He doesn’t want to do this. He had grown disillusioned with knights during the Rebellion, when he had seen the greatest knights in Westeros stand aside as their king committed atrocities. After he had seen what a knight, Rhaegar had knighted himself, had done to Rhaegar’s family. “Anyone can make a knight. And honor is usually the last factor in why people are knighted.”

He isn’t sure if his words sink in. It’s clear this woman idolizes knights, it’s clear that she wants to be a knight, and it’s unlikely one stranger’s words will change her whole world view. It would save her a lot of pain if she listened to him right now, but he remembers holding on to the hope that there was someone out there who was like what he wanted them to be. “If you won’t tell Renly,” and he could tell that she wouldn’t, “make sure to take care of yourself. These men don’t care about you and they don’t care about hurting you.”

She slowly nods her head and he takes that as his cue to leave.

\---

They had planned on leaving once the tourney was over. While they hadn’t gotten a handle on what Renly was planning, _if he was planning anything,_ they had gotten numbers on the size and general strength of the army. Since the tourney had been near finishing when they came to the agreement that they had what they needed, they saw no harm in waiting until it was over.

They had watched the final melee of the tourney with the rest of the camp. If he and Morgan cheered harder when Brienne gave other knights what they deserved, no one was paying them enough attention to call them on it. When the melee was down to three combatants, Morgan had nudged his arm and pointed out the new comers.

It hadn’t taken long for them to identify the strangers as northerners. At their head was someone he hadn’t seen in two decades. Lady Catelyn Stark hadn’t changed much from the fifteen-year-old girl he had met in Riverrun. She had the same long Tully-red hair, the same lily white skin, and the same self-assured posture.

His gaze had gone back to the tourney after a particularly loud roar from the crowd. He had split his attention between Brienne being sworn into Renly’s rainbow guard, _maybe that will protect her,_ and Lady Stark. The only reason he could think of for her being here was for alliances.

He and Morgan had gone back to their things after the tourney. They had discussed in length whether Lady Stark appearing was enough for them to stay longer. They had decided that it was enough and, in the morning, when they received word of conflict between Renly and Stannis, they knew they made the right decision.

The northerners were the talk of the camp, which meant that they were easy to discover things about. They confirmed some numbers about the strength of King Robb’s army, they learned about the North’s victories in combat, they learned about some of the hostages they had taken, _none of note,_ and many other rumors that they doubted were true.

They follow Renly’s army all the way to Storm’s End. They stay long enough to learn that the crown returned Eddard Stark’s bones to his family, long enough to know that Lady Catelyn sent most of her guard with those bones, long enough to know that Renly parlayed with Stannis, and long enough to know that there would be war in the morning. Not willing to fight for Renly, that is when they decide to sneak out of the camp and return to Dorne.

They sneak away without issue. They head west with the intention of making their way back through Summerhall. They make camp a short walk from a river. Though it was late, he made the walk to the water to reapply the dye in his hair. Half an inch of his golden hair was starting to show and he didn’t want to have to deal with any questions this could cause.

He’s hunched over the water when he hears the sound of people approaching. He considers trying to hide, but he had been distracted and the people are too close for him to get anywhere. Instead, he decides to act like nothing was wrong and stays put.

To say he is shocked when a disheveled Lady Stark and a bloody Lady Brienne burst out of the brush, would be an understatement. Their appearance makes him more aware of the fact that he is unarmed, that most of his things are with Morgan, and that he hadn’t explicitly told Morgan what he was planning on doing. Lady Brienne doesn’t seem to _see_ him, something else seemed to have taken over her mind, but Lady Stark’s gaze is scrutinizing in a way he doesn’t like.

They are much too close to him. A few long strides and they would be able to grab at each other. The tension in the air is palpable and he feels forced to break it. “Can I help you?”

“No, you cannot.” Lady Stark sounds disdainful. He bites back to urge to point out that he has done nothing to her. “Lady Brienne, I demand that you seize this man.”

Both he and Brienne start, but she, without question does as commanded. He sputters and tries to think of how he can get away. “On what grounds?”

She looks down at him in a way that reminds him of the way her husband had looked down at him after taking King’s Landing. “On the grounds that you are Jaime Lannister.”


	25. Rhaenys

She digs her toes into the sand of the beach. Even though she had lived on the edge of water for most of her life, she had never really had access to beaches. The only other time she had been on a beach was during their brief trip to the Summer Isles, but being on those beaches had felt different. Rushed, because they had only planned on spending a year on the islands and there had been so much to learn. Being on this beach felt different because she felt like she had the time to enjoy it.

It was also different because people were interested in interacting with her. Today, people had read her introspective mood and had left her alone, but most days she would field questions from young girls about her travels, amuse the young boys with stories about the interesting people she had met, and pretend she didn’t notice the transparent attempts to curry favor from the noble children. Aside from a few hellos, no one had really tried to talk to her. Which is why she is impressed when a young boy, maybe ten-years-old, approaches her.

The boy is small, small enough that she feels the need to bend down to speak with him, with large hazel eyes, windblown brown hair, a button nose bridged with freckles, and his hands clasped around something. “Hello,” she says, unable to keep the smile off her face.

“Hello,” he says, voice soft and unsure. He’s a boy who hasn’t spoken to her before. She’s made an effort to remember who she’s spoken to and what their names are, so she is sure he’s never approached her. He looks like he’s trying to gather his courage so that he can say something. She patiently waits as the boy fidgets in place trying to gather his words.

Eventually, he gives up and just thrusts his hands out towards her. She puts out her own hands and he drops his gift onto her palms.

She peers down into her hands and sees a seashell. The outside of the shell is dark and textured. The shell is slightly smaller than her palm and is in one smooth, unchipped piece. It’s nice, but not particularly noteworthy, until she flips it over. The inside of the shell is covered in a smooth, iridescent layer. The mother of pearl catches the light and reveals soft, muted colors.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” The boy smiles and a blush joins the dusting of freckles on his face.

The boy looks like he is going to say something to her, but then his eyes dart to something behind her. The boy bends forward in a bow and says, “Hello, Lady Ashara.”

She turns and spots Ashara walking up to them. “Hello. Do you mind if I borrow Lady Mara?” The boy vigorously shakes his head, further agitating his hair. He casts one last shy look her way, before racing off.

She tucks the shell into one of her pockets. “What do you need me for?”

“It is nothing important. I was just wondering if you would like to sit with me while I do some embroidering.”

“I would love to.” She and Ashara link arms as they head back inside. They walk in mostly silence, only speaking up to greet anyone who waves at them. They head up towards a terrace, a different one than the one she usually goes to, for this activity.

This terrace is a bit more hidden away, tucked into a nook that makes it more private than most of the other terraces. It seems they came to this one because Ashara had already gathered her materials on here. “I hope you don’t mind. I’ve never been able to embroider alone.”

They sit in adjacent chairs. Close enough that if she stretched her leg they would be touching ankles. “As long as you don’t mind that I can’t embroider.”

She watches as Ashara prepares her needle, threading it with dark red thread. “No?”

“No. I can passably stitch, but it is not pretty. And I have no clue how to use that skill to make designs.”

Ashara lets out a hum, already engrossed in her work. “It’s alright. It’s the silence I can’t stand.” A wistful smile comes over the other woman’s face. “When I was first learning, I made Arthur learn with me. My brother had no masculine pride and he didn’t mind learning such a womanly skill. Then, when I was a part of Princess Elia’s court, we would embroider in a group. It was always such an event; full of chatter and laughter and music, if our princess was in the mood. After that, I would make Morgan sit with me. Like his uncle, he has no pride and doesn’t mind indulging his mother.”

“Do you miss them?”

Ashara stills. Her needle hovers over the square of fabric she’s working on. “Every day,” she says, as she continues to stich. “I wasn’t a part of Elia’s court long, but she had taken such care in choosing her ladies and it showed in the compassion and care of each lady. And Arthur was my brother, who I loved unconditionally and who I believe to have loved me the same.

“And then there was Elia. Our princess was, self-admittedly, not perfect. She was obstinate and guarded and tended to burn with a cold anger. But she was perfect, to me, because she was aware of her flaws and fought against them. She listened when people disagreed with her, was willing to open up to people even though something inside her told her not to, and worked to be forgiving even when all she wanted to do was be angry.”

Ashara’s eyes glimmered with tears, but she couldn’t resist asking, voice hushed in understanding. “Did you know her long?”

“I knew her for about a decade, but there had been something so powerful about Elia’s attention that it felt like I had known her for far longer.” The wistful smile comes back. “I met her here, at the Water Gardens, when I was ten. When she and Oberyn were staying at the Water Gardens, every House in Dorne sent their children here, in the hope that they would bond with the prince or princess.

“For all intents, Elia should have ignored me. I was four years younger than her and incredibly uninterested in the politics I had been sent here to participate in. In retrospect, that was probably why she first approached me. I wasn’t interested in trying to convince her I was worth her time, I was just happy to be away from my dreadful brother.” Ashara shakes her head and lets out a wet sounding laugh. “I’m rather embarrassed to admit that I miss my son.”

She wants to push. To hear more about the mother she barely got to know. But she understands that the memories must not be easy and follows Ashara’s non-sequitur. “You miss your son?”

Ashara trades her red thread for a glinting gold one. “I rarely spend much time away from him. I lost so much after the Rebellion that I could not bear to part with him. It caused a lot of friction with my brother, who wanted the visible reminder of my dishonor gone. I was lucky that Oberyn was willing to marry me. He and I love each other, but as friends. Our marriage was one of convenience, to keep what conventions wanted to take from us. He would not ask me to give up my son and I would not ask him to give up the woman he wanted to spend his life with.”

She picks at the hem of her sleeve. “I understand,” she murmurs. “Feeling odd because someone isn’t there.” She can feel Ashara’s eyes on her and it only makes the fabric of her clothing more interesting. “This is the first time I’ve been separated from,” the urge to say Jaime’s name presses against her teeth before she corrects herself, “Erwin.”

Ashara lets her words sit; either understanding of the sentiment or reciprocating her earlier self-restraint. Her eyes drift back to the fabric Ashara is working on. She sees no hesitation; every stitch is purposeful and precise. _I wonder how many times she has done this, surrounded by people she cared for? I’ve been so focused on myself that I haven’t stopped to consider others. I wonder if she feels lonely, having been displaced here because of me?_

“I’m sorry,” Ashara looks up at her startled, “that you are here because of me. I- it must be difficult to have your life upended because of someone else.”

Ashara looks at her in a way she can only describe as soft. “What happened was not your fault. The aggressions of other people are always the fault of the aggressor.” Ashara leans forward in her chair and grabs her face in her hands. Ashara stares into her eyes as though it will help impart what she was about to say. “No matter what happens in the future and in the light of what has already happened, know that my life is better for having had the privilege of knowing you”

She feels a tightness in her throat and the bright purple of Ashara’s eyes begin to blur. The pressure of Ashara’s hands keeps her grounded. The words themselves are moving, but it’s the truth that seeps through the statement that shakes her. It feels like she should say something to match the impact of those words. All she can manage is a quiet and shaky, “Oh.”

Ashara rubs her thumbs across her cheekbones before drawing away. “I have a gift for you.” Ashara gathers the fabric she had been working on and hands it to her. It is a handkerchief with the symbol of House Martell freshly embroidered into one of its corners.

She can’t resist letting out a watery laugh. She uses one of the other corners to dab at her eyes. She’s about to compliment Ashara on the gift when the woman interrupts her. “And this.”

From her person, Ashara withdraws another square of fabric. She thinks it is another handkerchief, from the shape of the folded fabric. She thinks the handkerchief may have been a pure, pearl white once, but now it has turned the brownish shade of white old fabric becomes. The square is soft and well taken care of; the edges are not frayed, the fabric, though browned, is not discolored with stains, and it has a heft to it. She uses her thumbs to unfold the fabric. Brushes back the folds to unveil what could make this gift worthy.

Her handling exposes something she, instinctively, knows must have taken much patience and time. She carefully runs her fingers over the beaded work of art. She listens to the soft click of gemstones as they bump into one another. She tilts the fabric, entranced by the golden sheen that shines on the collection of black beads. She takes in the cool, smooth texture of the red beads. There is the dull awareness that the item she is holding is worth a small fortune, but it isn’t the most pressing matter in her mind. “How did you get this?”

“When my pregnancy was becoming more obvious, Elia was forced to send me home, for the sake of my reputation. I understood why but at the time I couldn’t stop crying. The princess said it was the pregnancy. She said that, in a month, the tears would pass and that a new emotion would set in, fierce and unrelenting.

“She gave me this handkerchief for my tears. I did the sensible thing and refused it. Not only was it not the kind of thing for tears but it was a handkerchief meant for a princess, not a lady in waiting. Then, she told me that her good-mother had made it for her, as a welcome into the family, and after that I told her I definitely couldn’t take it. But she said that that was why she wanted me to take it. The handkerchief would serve as proof that she wasn’t sending me away indefinitely. That, one day, I would be welcomed back into her court and, on that day, I was to give it back to her.

“I never got the chance, but I think she would approve of this.” A cool breeze stirs through the space and she thinks, _maybe,_ Queen Rhaella would approve of this as well.

\---

Her uncle is the first one back, alone. She had been in the courtyard and close enough to hear the spectacle caused by his arrival. She, like a number of curious others, had drifted towards the castle entrance to see who was arriving.

She had arrived right after her uncle had dismounted from his horse, passing off his horse to be taken care of. She wonders if he had stopped in Sunspear, because he looks much cleaner than a man who had been traveling should. She approaches her uncle with the confidence that she will be well received, and she is right.

Once her uncle spots her, he closes the distance between them in a few long strides. He surprises her by sweeping her up into a hug. It takes her a moment, but she returns the embrace. This close to him, she can smell a faint spicy scent come off his hair and now she is sure that he stopped in Sunspear before this.

After he sets her down she politely inquires. “How were your travels?”

“Fruitful.” He loops his arm through hers and begins to walk her along. “Let’s go find your uncle. I’m sure he would like to know that I am here.”

She waits until they are in the castle to ask, “And where are your traveling companions?”

“Daemon stayed back in Sunspear,” he turns to look at her, “but I don’t think he is who you are asking about.” She refuses to react to the statement. “Your knight is wherever he wants to be and Morgan is either with him or keeping an eye on him.”

The implications of what he is saying are immediately clear to her. A part of her wants to bristle on Jaime’s behalf, but she refuses to react to such an obvious ploy. _I trust Jaime. To leave and to come back to me. It doesn’t matter what Oberyn thinks, Jaime will do what was asked of him and come back._

Oberyn doesn’t say anything to her for a few more hallways. Either he has grown tired of waiting for her to say something or he’s decided to stop letting her stew, because he asks. “And how is your Gilded Dread?”

“Bigger,” she says curtly. If he were to ask her about her tone she would say that it was because they wasn’t supposed to talk about what he asked.

He doesn’t get the chance to question her because they quickly reach Prince Doran’s usual sitting room. Once Aero Hotah sees them, he disappears inside the room before reappearing outside. Doran must be willing to see them because Aero lets them pass unquestioned.

She steps away from Oberyn to go and press a kiss to Doran’s cheek. Doran squeezes her arm as she moves to sit next to him. Oberyn greets his brother but remains standing, something she is starting to assume is typical of him.

Doran wastes no time. “How was Highgarden?”

“Agitated. The war has reached Highgarden and Renly has left it divided. His marriage to the Tyrell daughter has the place openly in his favor, but people whisper of Stannis’s claim and the disrespect his little brother does him.”

“And how is Willas Tyrell?”

“Says his knee aches whenever there is going to be a storm, but aside from that he claims to be doing well.” Oberyn leans forward over the table. It seems Oberyn isn’t one to waste time either. “He also said he’d be open to a proper Dornish marriage.”

She looks between her two uncles. “A proper Dornish marriage?”

Oberyn nods. “A marriage where he gives up his claim to his house to marry into his lady wife’s house.”

“Did you tell him about me?”

“No. I asked him if he would be willing to cede his claim to Highgarden for something else. If he was willing to forgo becoming a great lord for something a Tyrell has never been before.”

“His willingness aside, he is an heir not a lord,” Doran reminds. “Lord Tyrell would have to agree to pass over one son for the other.”

Oberyn shakes his head. “It’s Olenna Tyrell who would need to be convinced. The word is that no decision is made in Highgarden without her approval. It would take some convincing, but Willas believes it is possible, with the right offer. And what greater offer is there than to make him king?”

She isn’t sure if it’s because she is already irritated, but the idea of being betrothed to a man she has never met bothers her. _Which makes me feel like a hypocrite, considering I advised for a betrothal between Trystane and Myrcella, children who have never met._ “You should know that, while you were away, Dorne received an offer from Lord Tyrion Lannister.”

“The Crown’s hand? What offer could he make that would have us side with the Lannisters?”

“He isn’t attempting to buy an alliance,” Doran clarifies. “Lord Tyrion is looking for Dorne’s indifference. He has offered a betrothal,” Oberyn scoffs, “and justice for it.”

Oberyn perks up like her cat at the mention of justice, but her uncle knows self-restraint. “A betrothal between who?”

“My Trystane and their Princess, Myrcella.”

“And justice?”

“He has promised Elia’s killer, but in those terms. He lists no names, there are no guarantees, and someone will have to go to King’s Landing to see it through.”

“I’ll go.” Oberyn speaks up before Doran gets the chance to interrupt. “He lists no name. Clegane has been untouchable and will remain untouchable as long as Tywin wants him to be, but this is our chance. This could be our chance to get them both, a chance that won’t want to present itself again.” Oberyn spreads his hands on the table. “This could be our chance to put our sister’s ghost to rest.”

Doran lifts his hand to rest it on her back. “We are serving her memory.” Oberyn looks at her, eyes alight with a certain kind of fire. It’s a fire she has seen in her own eyes after a dragon dream; reflected in still water and mirrors. The fire of certainty; a certainty where even though she doesn’t know how it will happen, she knows that what will come to pass. She knows that his certainty doesn’t come from a dream, but she thinks it is the intent mourning fire of a man who doesn’t feel like he has done enough, but has seen the chance to do so.

“You are worried I won’t come back.”

“You have to be aware of how dangerous this is. There have been terrible rumors surrounding Gregor Clegane and Tywin isn’t going to take threats against him lightly. I want justice for Elia, but I don’t want to lose you for it.”

“This is a good opportunity that asks very little of us.” Oberyn steps forward to grab his brother’s hands. The man radiates a charming intensity and she wonders if anyone has ever successfully denied Oberyn something he truly wanted. “Send word to Lord Tyrion that we accept his terms. I promise you brother, that I will go and come back.”


	26. Bran

A part of him appreciates the respect that comes from being the Stark in Winterfell. Another part of him longs for the day when Robb will come back and handle all these responsibilities.

There are entertaining responsibilities, like sitting in the hall greeting guests or deciding which dishes to present to who. There are tedious responsibilities, like deciding where visiting lords will sit and asking them to put aside food they would much rather sell. And then there are the _unpleasant_ responsibilities, the things he wishes, _father,_ Robb was here to handle and he could continue to live in ignorance of.

The other day he had asked Vorian if the burden of adulthood was knowing. He felt like he knew more about the world outside Winterfell than he ever wanted to know. His question had startled a laugh out of the usually serious man. The sound had been loud and one he had rarely heard before. Once the man had composed himself, Vorian had told him that knowing was a part of it, but the other half of the burden was the secrets that came with knowing.

He was starting to dread the lordly meetings because it just meant learning more about the world while feeling like he was making half-informed decisions. Today’s meeting had already started on a bad foot. He had been enjoying some time with Summer, when Maester Luwin went out looking for him. Luwin had been apologetic, but had insisted that there were some decisions that had to be made as soon as possible. He reluctantly parted with his wolf and allowed Hodor to carry him inside.

Hodor trails behind Luwin and carries him into the room they held these meeting in. Luwin gives him a moment to settle himself before leaving to fetch Ser Rodrik.

He flips through some of the papers left out on the desk. There is an inventory of what is kept in Winterfell, notes on supplies that need to be restocked, a count of how much grain was being stored, a list of what percentages each House agreed to set aside in preparation for winter, a sheaf of reviewed letters, a sheaf of untouched letters, and blank pages likely prepared for letters drafted today. He doesn’t mind the details of running a castle. He doesn’t like it, there are a number of other things he’d rather be doing, but he doesn’t hate it.

Luwin comes back and finds him curiously looking through the castle incomes. He looks up and sees Rodrik trailing behind the maester. If he’s honest with himself, he misses having Vorian at these meetings. The man tended to be more levelheaded than Ser Rodrik and wasn’t afraid to disagree with Luwin. _Not that Rodrik was afraid to disagree with Luwin but the two usually agreed on most matters_. Also, Vorian wasn’t the type to tell him what to do; instead the man preferred waiting for him to come to his own conclusions before voicing his own. There had always been a sense of pride when he came to the same conclusions as Vorian and Vorian always seriously considered whatever conclusions he came to.

As the men settle themselves for this meeting, he notices that Luwin is agitated. The maester putters in a way that is unusual for him. Luwin fidgets with his sleeves, rearranges writing supplies, and sorts through the untouched letters he assumes they will be discussing. They don’t begin until he gives the signal for them to start.

Luwin clears his throat and starts, “I’m afraid there isn’t much in the way of good news for this meeting.” He thinks the clarification is a little unnecessary considering this an unscheduled assembly.

The maester takes a breath and continues. “We still have not received word from Theon and the Iron Islands. But it could be that they have sent word to Robb and that he has not had the chance to send word to us because he is on the warpath. Or that the raven they sent did not survive the flight.” In his mind’s eye, he sees Vorian frowning, the Dornishman tended to believe that news unreceived was news unsent, but Theon and Robb were like brothers. Theon had no reason to betray Robb. A quiet voice inside of him whispers that Renly had no reason to betray Stannis either.

Luwin picks a letter out of the bunch and presents it to him. “We’ve received word from Lord Manderly that Lady Hornwood was assailed on her journey back from the harvest feast.”

Ser Rodrik quickly bristles and, before Luwin can continue his report, curtly demands. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Lord Bolton’s bastard son, Ramsey Snow. And he has supposedly married Lady Hornwood as well.” Rodrik’s face begins to grow an angry red and seems about to say something, but, before he can be interrupted again, Luwin adds. “Lord Manderly reports that he is going to seize her castle, in an attempt to protect her holdings.” Luwin’s opinion of the decision is clear in how the sentence is seeped with skepticism.

Rodrik looks moments away from being spitting mad. “Do we know where she is being held,” he asks before Rodrick can say anything, for fear that once Rodrik starts he won’t be able to get a word in.

“We do not, but Hornwood would be the best place to check.”

He’s about to say something, but Rodrik manages to be faster than him. “Give the word, my prince, and I will assemble men and we will ride out by tomorrow morning.”

“What about training the new recruits?” Whatever men Rodrik took would likely draw from their already depleted guard.

“Ser Vorian can go back to training the recruits.” _I doubt he will like that, but Vorian will do as I ask._

“Actually,” Luwin says, “I wanted to propose something to you, Prince Bran.” He nods his head for Luwin to continue. “I was going to suggest that we send Vorian to Dorne to begin talks with Prince Doran.”

It doesn’t slip his notice that Luwin does not pass him a letter with this proposal. “Has Robb asked us to send someone to Dorne?”

“He has not, but I see no harm in reminding Dorne that we could have common cause.” He is trying to think through the proposal, when Luwin adds, “We would not be committing Robb to anything. At most, we would be opening the door from further discussion.”

He taps his finger against the desk. “Why Vorian?”

“He is from Dorne. He is likely familiar with its landscape, both natural and political.” Luwin pauses. “And I believe Vorian will have an… easier time convincing Dorne to listen to us.”

“How will we explain it to Rickon?” His brother had grown more attached to Vorian in the wake of everyone leaving. He couldn’t imagine the kind of tantrum Rickon might throw if they told him that Vorian had to leave as well.

Luwin grimaces. “I’m sure it will be difficult for him, but Prince Rickon will come to understand. Like he understood Robb leaving.” It’s true that Rickon has calmed down, but he thinks the maester is misinterpreting why. _Rickon still doesn’t understand why Robb left. I think he just learned that Shaggydog would also be punished for the things he did._

To give himself more time to think, he asks. “Why would Bolton’s bastard marry himself to Lady Hornwood?”

Luwin already has a response prepared. “It is likely that he is attempting to secure a claim on the Hornwood estate.”

“But her son is still alive.”

“As far as we know. Word from the warfront travels slowly. It could be that Daryn is already dead or may soon be among them. He is a part of your brother’s guard and that is not a very safe position. There had already been discussions about what could happen if Daryn died, considering there is only one other potential, but illegitimate, heir and Lady Hornwood is past the age of having more.”

He knows that the situation with Lady Hornwood needs to be settled by them. It was his responsibility as a Stark to protect the people of the North. The question was how it should be handled.

He had first thought to send Vorian to handle the matter. He hadn’t considered sending Rodrik since Rodrik had more responsibilities in the castle than Vorian did. He hadn’t considered that Rodrik would want to personally settle the matter until the man had spoken up, and a part of him wondered if it was sensible to let the man do so. If Luwin hadn’t brought up Dorne he might be more inclined to send Vorian over Rodrik.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to send Vorian to Dorne. He couldn’t think of a time when Vorian had left Winterfell. Vorian had been a mysterious but constant part of the castle and asking him to leave felt like too much after all the change that had happened. With father and mother and Robb and Jon and Sansa and Arya and Jory and Alyn and Tom and so many others gone, some of who would never return again, to willingly send Vorian away felt wrong. It felt as though he would be condemning the man to joining the ranks of those who would never come back.

Still, Luwin’s proposal made sense. It was their responsibility to support Robb and an alliance with Dorne could be a great help to Robb. While anyone could be sent to speak with Dorne, it made sense for it to be Vorian. He likely had connections there that could help him. Vorian was the logical choice. _But what if he goes and doesn’t come back? Vorian is dutiful and loyal, but he always speaks of Dorne with such longing. What if homesickness keeps him from coming back?_

_If only someone else was here to make this decision. If only there was someone else here who had the experience to know what was the right choice. But there isn’t, there is only me and whatever I choose._

He flattens his hand against the desk. “Ser Rodrik,” the knight looks at him with his full attention, “make whatever preparations you have to make and head to Hornwood as soon as you are comfortable.” Rodrik nods his head. He does not look pleased about the assignment, but he does look determined.

Luwin speaks up, “And what about the Dornish assignment?” He pursues his lips and Luwin takes his hesitation to add, “The sooner someone is sent to Dorne the better chance we will have at an alliance.”

He nods his head. “I will-,” he wants to say that he will speak with Vorian, but it doesn’t feel like there is time. “Let’s go forward with your plan.” And if a part of him feels wrong for agreeing with the maester, he had always been told that lords had to make difficult decisions. _I can only hope I made the right one._


	27. Jaime

To say that he was taking his capture well would be a lie. He is surly and uncooperative and angry every step of the way. And it is, quite literally, every step, because Catelyn and Brienne only have two horses and they don’t trust him on one, either with them or by himself. He takes bitter satisfaction in the fact that him being on foot slows them down.

A part of him had hoped that him being on foot would have given Morgan the chance to catch up and help him get out of this mess. But Morgan either had no idea where he was or knew that attacking Lady Stark and her new knight was a bad idea, knowledge that, on top of not having a weapon, kept him from attempting to escape. He’d prefer if Morgan was hanging back, waiting for a chance to help him get away, but he couldn’t overlook the reality that he may be completely on his own.

He lets out an irritated huff to blow partially-blonde hair out of his periphery. The strands slip back to exactly where they were before, as though taunting the futility of his actions. He’s never been more tempted to get rid of all his hair than right now. He had tried to brush off Lady Stark’s accusations as absurd, but the more his roots revealed themselves the more they seemed to shout that he was a Lannister.

He had also tried to make Lady Stark doubt her memory. To convince her that green eyes and blonde hair were not exclusive to the Lannisters and that no one had seen Jaime Lannister in a decade and a half, so maybe the man was dead. The woman had looked down her nose at him, in a way that had irritated him all on its own, and had said that, even if she hadn’t seen Jaime Lannister in longer than that, she _had_ seen Cersei Lannister’s face recently enough and that she would recognize her face instantly. It was absurd reasoning, something he had said to her face, but he had quickly realized that there was no convincing the woman that he was anyone else. Lady Stark desperately wanted him to Jaime Lannister so that’s who he was. _And if he refused to contemplate the source of her desperation, that was his business._

And if Lady Stark was frustrating, with her probing questions that he answered with snarky non-answers and equally probing question, then Brienne was even more frustrating with her searching looks and her unwillingness to question Lady Stark. If Brienne doubted that he was indeed Jaime Lannister she definitely didn’t advocate on his behalf and she definitely didn’t question why they’d take him captive. But if he had had the woman’s sympathies earlier, he had definitely lost them by now. He refuses to be held accountable for that loss of sympathy, he could only take so many pitying looks as she had tied him to a tree to bed down for the night. _And if he got a petty pleasure out of Brienne’s reaction every time he called her a wench, that was also his business._

Even with all their back and forths, the only thing of note that he had learned from this _excursion_ was that the reason Lady Stark and Brienne had seemed so disheveled when they had found him was because they had just come from King Renly’s murder. That had gotten Brienne talking, as she vehemently denied any involvement in the kingslaying. He had acted appropriately skeptical when she had claimed that a shade had killed Renly, but he couldn’t deny that they might be telling the truth considering he had spent the majority of his life making decisions around magic dreams and just two months past, _has it really been that long,_ he had seen a dragon in the flesh. He knew, first hand, that there was magic in the world.

He did allow himself to contemplate Renly’s murder. Everyone but the Tyrells benefited from Renly’s death, but he knew of no one who could conjure a shade to do their dirty work. Not that anyone would go around announcing they had legitimate magic on their side, but he couldn’t even fathom who could have a magic user on their side. The Starks were out of the question, if it had been them then Lady Stark wouldn’t have been in the room. His father wouldn’t stand talk of magical nonsense long enough to find out it was true. He knew too little about Stannis and the kind of people he was gathering to make a guess if it was him. No clean source and no clean benefactor.

Renly was dead but his forces had likely scattered to the wind. If Stannis had won the battle they had planned then he would have won what remained of Renly’s forces, but an assassination would mean conflict. It would mean that people who had once boasted that they would bring Renly glory, could find themselves on opposing sides. _A shame to use magic to kill Renly and only earn a messy situation._

“Ser Jaime,” he lets out a deep sigh. He was grateful that Brienne had his rope tied to the pommel of her saddle because he was sure Lady Stark would abuse that responsibility.

“I told you, Lady Stark. My name is not Jaime.”

She lets out a soft hum. “Yes, yes. You claim to be an Erwin who never knew his father and claims to have joined Renly for the glory.” Lady Stark turns in her saddle to better look at him. She looks him in the eye and says, coolly as though they were speaking of the weather, “Did you hear the story of my last hostage?”

He refuses to give her what she wants. He wants the clench his fists and bare his teeth, but instead he tilts his head to the side and cocks up an eyebrow. “I heard you took him to the Vale,” he says in a voice that doesn’t feel like his. “Is the Lady of the Vale not Lysa Tully? How odd, that you and your son find yourselves embroiled in a war and yet your sister has chosen not to get involved.”

The look in her eyes is cold and he _knows_ that if she had her hands on his rope she would have pulled on it to try and send him tumbling down. “Even after weeks of being held captive, even after more than a decade of you being gone, he still believed that you would somehow appear and save him.”

Her words make a complicated jumble of emotions bloom inside of him. He can pick out shame and guilt, a smattering of pride, a hint of satisfaction that he left a lasting impression on his brother, but, underneath it all, there is the faintest curl of hope, that his brother does not hate him for leaving. A part of him, desperately, wants to give this wretched woman what she wants. To break and tell her exactly what he thinks about what she did to his brother.

But before he can give into the impulse, a noise catches his attention. He stops walking, trying to put together what he heard. “Did you hear that?” The women stop their horse and they all stand in silence, straining their ears attempting to hear something while hoping to hear nothing. Their hopes were in vain.

There was a rustle in the woods around them and he could make out the sound of hooves approaching. Brienne tosses his rope over to Lady Stark and loosens her sword. As Lady Stark fumbles to grab the rope, he considers tearing himself away, but there was no guarantee that these people were friendly and he didn’t have a weapon. Instead he presses close to Lady Stark’s horse and speaks in a harsh whisper. “Untie me!”

Even in her flustered state, Lady Stark finds the time to stare down at him in contempt. “And why should I do that?” _At least it wasn’t a no outright._

“Untied I could be anyone; a husband, a brother, an escort, but tied I am obviously a hostage.” She doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t let the look deter him. “And having a hostage will make them ask questions, questions I don’t think you want to answer.”

She stares him in the eye, adjusting a scarf around her distinct red hair. The sound of horses gets louder and it takes everything inside him not to curse at her. It reaches the point where he is sure that she isn’t going to let him go, when she tugs at his binds to bring his wrists towards her. She doesn’t bother picking at knots. She draws a blade from her belt and saws through the rope. His wrists are red and rubbed raw and it could be a problem, but he drags his sleeves down to hide them. _Now how to best use this freedom._

He doesn’t get long to think about it. Three riders burst out of the wood beside them. He doesn’t like how obviously hostile these men are, because hostile men are hasty men. They don’t look like bandits and he thinks he vaguely recognizes them from Renly’s camp.

There is a moment of tense silence as they assess one another. The man at their head doesn’t take his eyes off Brienne, another one sweeps his eyes across their group, and the last one seems to be scanning the wood around them, wary of something. The one who seems to be the leader speak up. “Why did you do it,” his eyes still on Brienne, “why did you kill Renly?”

“I didn’t,” she says; thankfully, avoiding any talk of shades.

But, just like his arguments against being Jaime Lannister had fallen on deaf ears, so does Brienne’s claim. The man narrows his eyes. “If that’s how you’re going to be,” there is a flash of reflected light as the man draws his sword, “then let the gods judge your dishonesty!”

Brienne draws her own sword as the men charge. The leader crashes into Brienne with an audible clash, the watchful man rushes towards Lady Stark’s horse, and the wary man flanks to keep her from escaping.

Lady Stark’s horse had good instincts and jerks towards the combat instead of the trap. Left with no other choice, he dives down and out of the rider’s way. Adrenaline starts to sing though him, but he is hyperaware of the fact that he is facing this conflict unarmed. He hears more than sees Brienne and the leader tumble to the ground. He quickly darts up to his feet to grab at the rider.

It’s the kind of move that shouldn’t work. Any experienced rider would never be pulled out of their saddle by someone on the ground, but luck is on his side. With one hard yank, he drags the man onto the ground. The man lets go of his blade on the way down, which happens to be more knife than sword.

There is no finesse to thrashing around on the ground. It’s all knees and elbows and grappling. He cuts his knuckles on the man’s teeth, but it gives him the advantage he needs. He rolls over, grabs the knife, and doesn’t hesitate to bring it down on the man’s chest. He doesn’t let up as the knife grinds against the man’s ribs. He doesn’t let up at the warm gush of blood that sprays on his fist. He doesn’t let up until the body stops thrashing beneath him.

He looks towards his left and sees that Brienne is standing, having dealt with her man. He hears a cry from the right and sees a fourth rider come out of the woods and cut down the nervous rider. This new rider comes towards them and, out of the corner of his eye, he can see Brienne prepare to face him. When he recognizes the rider, he jumps up, leaving the knife in the man when it doesn’t cleanly come with him.

“Wait!” He says, holding his hands out towards Brienne and turning his back to the new arrival. Brienne points her sword towards his chest. It’s more precautionary than threatening, but it is there none the less. Behind him, he can hear the horse come to an abrupt stop. He doesn’t let himself flinch when a sword comes into his periphery to rest on his shoulder. _I wonder if they can tell that this threat is more towards them than me?_

He thinks this is going to be another moment that devolves into tense silence, but before it gets to reach that point Lady Stark exclaims, “Brandon!”

He takes his eyes off Brienne, who remains focused and unmoving, to Lady Stark. Lady Stark looks like she has seen a ghost, her skin having gone unnaturally pale. It isn’t until a few seconds after her exclamation that he puts together what she means.

“No, milady,” Morgan says from behind him. The man’s slight Dornish accent has been wiped from his words making them implacable. “One of his bastards.” And he wonders why he hadn’t put it together before. Morgan’s face had always struck him as familiar but he had never connected it to a Stark’s face. _Though, the last time I saw Brandon Stark he barely looked like himself._

Morgan’s words land like a blow and Lady Stark’s face twists into something wretched and despairing. She quickly composes her face, but the memory of what it looked like doesn’t leave. “Whose,” she says, cold and stony.

“What does it matter? From what I understand, Brandon Stark could have a number of unknown bastards.” It’s clear that Morgan isn’t attempting to be cruel, but it is also clear that he isn’t going to tell her.

Now there is silence. Lady Stark stares them down, radiating a frigid type of anger. _If she’s trying to stare Morgan into submission it isn’t going to work._ Eventually, Lady Stark cracks, looking weary and tired. “I need him.”

He instinctively tilts his head back as Morgan shifts his sword closer to his neck, but the man, somehow, manages to sound regretful. “I can’t let you take him.”

“You don’t understand, I need him!” The desperation coming off Lady Stark is both surprising and not. “All I want is to go home to my children. He’s the only way I can get my daughters back.” _Oh._

“How?” Her gaze swivels down to him, intense and distraught. “How would I have gotten you your daughters back.”

“An exchanging of hostages.”

“They would have never believed you. Not unless you handed me over first. And if you did that there is no guarantee they would follow through.” And maybe he should keep pretending he isn’t Jaime, but she had never believed him before.

She stares at him for a long moment. “You brother would follow through. Even without handing you over first, your brother would have believed.”

He turns to look at Morgan, catching a glimpse of a black blade. “Do you have my things?” Morgan looks at him before letting out a sharp whistle. His horse ambles out from the same direction Morgan had come. “I can’t go with you, but I can write something for you.” She doesn’t look convinced and, honestly, he doesn’t blame her. “Your plan never really relied on me anyway. Only the idea of me.”

“Why?” Lady Stark is wary and cautious and, likely against her better judgement, hopeful. “Why would you help me?”

“All you want are your daughters.” _And I have a soft spot for desperate mothers trying to protect their daughters._


	28. Bran

It simultaneously feels like there is too much and nothing in his head as he stares at Theon. _No, Prince Theon._ He thought he knew the man, Theon had been in his life as long as he had been alive, but the man sitting across from his was unrecognizable.

Except that wasn’t true. The man sitting across from him was obviously Theon. Nothing had changed about the man. Theon’s hair was the same, his face was the same, his voice was the same, _everything_ was the same. It would have been easier if Theon had changed. If there had been some physical marker to go with the betrayal. The fact that Theon looked the same made him feel like _this_ was who the man had always been. Made it feel like, if he was smarter or wiser or careful, then he would have seen Theon for who he truly was.

“Bran, where is Vorian?” Theon’s voice is focused and insistent. A part of him wants to retort, ‘so you can kill him’, but the words stick to his throat. He is in danger and even if he wasn’t careful enough before, he needs to be careful now.

“He’s not here.”

“Robb left him to protect you and Rickon. He wouldn’t just leave.”

“He didn’t have a choice.” His voice quivers, so he pauses to gather himself. “I sent him away. He didn’t want to go, but I ordered him to.” This time, he manages to be more steady and forceful.

Theon watches him, trying to see if he is telling the truth. He wishes it was a lie. That, in actuality, Vorian was hiding somewhere in the castle ready to act, but the reality was that the man was not here. He had done as Luwin had advised and had given Vorian assignment to Dorne.

The knight had not gone easy. In a manner he had never seen before, Vorian had meticulously picked apart their reasoning for sending him. Vorian had not been cruel, but there had been no kindness in the way he had pointed out flaws in their plans. The man never said he would not go, but he argued his point with a single-mindedness that made it clear where he stood. It had ended with him, flanked by Luwin and Rodrik, saying that Vorian would do this because his prince had asked it of him. There had been a moment of silence after that, long enough that he feared Vorian would not do as he was told, before the knight bowed his head and agreed to leave. It hadn’t felt like a victory, instead it had felt like he had taken advantage of his rights as prince.

Which had made him even more nervous about informing Rickon. Vorian was an adult, a disciplined knight, and he had not taken the order well. If Vorian had taken the news poorly, how would his brother, a child sick of losing people, take to the news? But the concern had been unwarranted. Rickon had not cried or screamed at the news. He had considered that maybe his brother had not realized what was happening, but the day Vorian had left Rickon had seen him off at the gate. His brother had not thrown a tantrum, like he had expected, instead Rickon had hugged the knight, whispered something in the man’s ear, and had waved farewell until the man was no longer visible.

“Where did you send him?”

“South. With Ser Rodrik.” Theon doesn’t bother searching his face for lies. Instead, Theon leaves with vague words about being ready. About doing what was right. _Cruel words from a man who had wronged the people who had taken him in_.

As he waits, he thinks of what Rickon had said to him after Vorian had left. He had asked Rickon if he was sad to see the Dornish knight go and Rickon had looked him in the eye and said, “He’ll be back,” with all the confidence in the world. _But as much as I wish for that to be true, I hope he doesn’t come back, because Theon knows Vorian is a threat and won’t hesitate to have him killed._

\---

He didn’t know when they would see the plot though until he saw the Reeds in his dream. Until he dreams of Meera and Jojen opening the gate of the godswood to set him and his brother free. As he passed by Jojen, the boy had looked him in the eye and said, “Wake up.”

He wakes up smoothly, oddly unstartled as he opens his eyes in the dark. There is a sense of certainty as he waits for Hodor to come get him. For once, the giant man is strangely quiet, as though he understands the need for secrecy tonight. With swift, practiced movements, he and Hodor maneuver him into the basket and go to the courtyard.

Everyone else is already there when they arrive. Osha is holding Rickon in her arms, the Reed siblings are whispering among themselves, and the direwolves are looking out the open gate. With their arrival they exchange no words, they just go.

He can feel the beating of his heart as they walk. The muted crunch of snow under their feet sounds too loud. He had never though the walk to be all that long, but right now the walk feels like it lasts an eternity. _We only need to reach the tree line and then turn around,_ he thinks to himself. It is the mantra he repeats to ward off the sour touch of fear.

He feels like he is mostly successful in keeping fear away, until they do reach the tree line and Summer stills, suddenly alert which made everyone else alert. Meera readies her net, Osha sets Rickon down while also pulling a knife from her belt, he clings to Hodor’s shoulders, Shaggydog and Summer begin to inch forward, only Jojen seems unworried.

There is a sound. A slight rustling of leaves that could be the wind, or an animal, or a man. _No one should be out here,_ he thinks to himself, _there is no way anyone found out._ The direwolves disappear into the brush and they wait with baited breath for them to give their verdict.

Summer comes back first. His direwolf comes back unbloodied and shakes in front of them. Their eyes whip off the direwolf at the sound something else approaching. They see Shaggydog’s head come out of the bush, looking puffed with contentment, and then they see the figure behind him.

For a while, all he can see is the dark gray of the man’s cloak. It’s dirty, dusted in snow, and pushed back enough to reveal two swords, one on each hip. The man is holding his hands up, palms facing out towards them, trying to make himself seem unthreatening. Rickon recognizes him before he does, breaking from Osha’s side to grab at the man’s clothes. It takes him a moment to look past the longer hair and the well-developed beginnings of a beard, but he eventually sees what his brother saw.

“Vorian,” he says as the man picks Rickon up, “how are you here?”

“I hope you didn’t come spoiling for a fight,” Osha drawls, “one man isn’t enough to take a castle.” The words must mean something to Vorian because the knight sends her a startled look.

Before Vorian can compose himself and respond, Jojen looks at him. “Bran, we need to hurry back before anyone notices. You need to send the wolves away.”

“Go back,” Vorian asks as they watch the direwolves race off.

“The boys need to be in the crypts,” Osha tells him.

“Why do they need to be in the crypts?”

“Because I’ve seen it in a dream.” And it all feels foolish when Jojen says it like that. He expects Vorian to react like Luwin and Ser Rodrik had, with disbelief and dismissiveness. It would be the logical reaction because Vorian had not heard of his or Jojen’s dream and had not seen the terrible way in which those dreams had come true.

Instead, Vorian focuses on Jojen. “A magic dream?” His voice is level and solemn. He is pretty sure Vorian is being serious, because the man has never been mocking, but it is hard to tell.

“A magic dream,” Jojen replies, equally serious, “Arthur.” And Jojen’s eyes seem even more green in tonight’s moonlight.

He doesn’t know why Jojen says that, but it gets a reaction out Vorian. The knight goes unnaturally still and his eyes narrow. “Does the name Arthur mean something to you,” he feels compelled to ask. Vorian had always been so secretive about his past that he can’t resist prying, even in the tension of this moment.

Vorian sends Jojen one last searching look then turns to him. “It is a name I have not heard in a long time,” his voice is measured and unreadable. Before he gets the chance to ask more questions, the knight waves his arm out. “If the crypts are where you should be, we should head back before anyone starts to wonder where you are.”

They walk back in silence. They walk back on their footsteps, with Vorian going slightly ahead and stepping in Hodor’s large prints. When he looks back, there is no sign that Vorian was here.

He has no idea how much time has passed, how long they have been out and exposed, but there is no one around to notice. Winterfell is quiet and deceptively peaceful. They slip into the crypt like ghosts, silent and unnoticed. They stumble through the dark, not wanting to risk a light.

They settle down by father’s empty grave. Osha and Vorian huddle together to whisper. They discuss their supplies, rationing, how long they might have to stay down here, and what Ser Rodrik was doing relatively quietly. Once they settle these details, they tell their predictions to the rest of the group. Vorian asks Jojen for more details about his dream but there isn’t much left to figure out from the vision. With that discussed, they all settle down for the only thing they have left to do. Wait.

\---

There is a distinct feeling of wrongness that came from scavenging his own home, but he’d much rather focus on that feeling than the sadness that settled in his chest. Vorian and Luwin had shared words after Luwin had sent the rest of them away. He has no idea what those words were, but the energy Vorian radiated when he returned was enough to keep him from asking.

He looks over their little group. They are all dirty and greasy and worn-thin. Their rations had lasted them long enough, but, as is the nature of rations, they had not eaten well. Their hunger reflects differently on each person; Hodor looks unchanged, Vorian still looks every bit the knight he is albeit thinner, Osha has started to look gaunt, Meera’s clothes look looser in the light of day, Jojen has lost some of the fat on his face, but Rickon doesn’t look malnourished. He suspects Vorian and Osha may have been sneaking his brother part of their rations.

As they divvy their found food amongst themselves, Vorian makes sure they pack other things they may need for travel. The knight insists they take things like blankets, flint, string, rope, and other relatively light supplies. Vorian also makes sure Meera knows how to use a flint, how to find dry wood, what baits work best for what traps, what traps work without bait, and a dozen other survival skills. Meera listens attentively. When he finishes, Vorian thanks her for allowing him to lecture her on things she, likely, already knows and Meera smiles good-naturedly.

As they say their goodbyes he has Hodor approach Vorian for him. “Thank you, for coming back. I think Rickon needed for someone to come back.”

They turn to look at Rickon. His brother is red eyed and sniffly, but he doesn’t cry. “When you reach Greywater Watch send word to Robb. I’ll try to do the same but you’ll have an easier time at it.”

He nods his head. With that, Vorian calls Rickon over. The knight wishes Hodor good health. Before they get the chance to go, Vorian reaches up and puts his hand on his neck. The knight’s hand is almost unbearably hot against his skin, but it also reminds him that they are alive.

This close he gets a really good look at the man’s face. He suddenly has the urge to memorize the man’s face, knowing that it could be a long while before they see each other again. In the time they’ve spent in the crypts, Vorian’s beard has become unruly, wildly different from his usual clean-shaven face. The knight’s hair is braided back and away from his face. This close, the man’s eyes seem to be a dark purple.

“I’ll take care of myself,” he says before Vorian can say anything.

The knight looks him in the eye, radiating seriousness. “Be careful, Bran. All magic comes at a cost. And rarely, will you know the price you are paying.” And with that the man lets go. He watches as Vorian, Osha, Rickon, and Shaggydog walk away, and wonders when he will see them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some chapters fight me every step of the way and this was one of them. I want you to know I considered killing Ramsey straight out of the gate. I decided against it, but I was really tempted for a while.


	29. Jaime

There is a distinct sense of awkwardness as he prepares to write his petition to Tyrion. There is quiet as he goes through his things looking for quill, ink, and paper. It takes him a bit longer than it should, but not as long as he had expected. He already knows Morgan has gone through his things, the young knight had kept Brightroar in hand and exposed as he searched, but, aside from the papers that had held their information about Renly’s once army and his sword, everything is more or less in its place.

Before he starts writing he asks Lady Stark if she has any wax and gets to work as Brienne starts a small fire for that wax. He doesn’t think as he writes. There is no time for it because the longer he waits the more he invites tension into their strange affair. For a while, the only sound among them is the scritching of his quill and the shuffling of their horses.

As he finishes, he goes back to his saddlebags. He reaches in and digs his fingers into a, seemingly natural, bulge in the bag’s lining. This item is exactly where it was supposed to be. He rubs his fingers against the ridges of the seal as Brienne heats the gray wax for him. This is one of the few, if not the only, item he still has that he took with him when leaving King’s Landing. He hasn’t used it in far longer, since King Aerys was too suspicious of him to let him write his own letters.

He takes care when sealing the letter. After sealing it, he takes a moment to look at the seal. At the oddity of a Lannister lion of Stark gray wax. There would be questions about the letter’s legitimacy but sealing it well could help avoid one of those questions. He hands the letter to Brienne when he is done. He stresses that this letter must go to Tyrion and no one else. That its contents will only mean something to his brother and would, at best, annoy the likes of his father and sister.

Brienne takes the letter back to Lady Stark and he kicks dirt on the small fire. He spares a glance towards Morgan’s face as he goes back to his horse. The man’s face is indifferent and unreadable. Lady Stark calls out his name as he mounts his horse. She looks at him a moment before voicing a quiet, “Thank you.” He has nothing to say to that, so he says nothing. And with that, they go their separate ways.

By unspoken agreement he and Morgan ride their horses fast and hard. He doesn’t think Lady Stark would be rash enough to try and have Brienne take them both on by herself, but it was better to get as far from them as possible than to leave the option available. They ride through the rush in silence, to avoid having to yell at each other over the wind.

They don’t say anything until their horses begin to tire. Even then the words they share are the bare minimum needed to come to an agreement. Even though they have been separated for over a week, they still set up camp with a seamless efficiency. They eat a lean dinner in silence, but after, as he sits by the fire listening to the crackle of flames, Morgan approaches him to hand back his Valyrian sword.

He looks Morgan in the eye as he takes Brightroar back. In this moment, he is irritated by how much Morgan is like his uncle. Just like Arthur, Morgan is frustratingly unreadable when he wants to be. Eventually, Morgan says to him, “Tomorrow, we will swing west a bit, so we can pass by the source of the Blueburn. You are in desperate need of a wash.”

He cracks a smirk at the young knight. “I didn’t know you were so concerned with my hygiene.”

Morgan scoffs. “I am concerned when there is a chance that riding downwind from you will knock me off my horse.”

He doesn’t think he smells that bad, but he’s had time to grow used to his own stench. He waits to see if Morgan will bring up what happened. When he doesn’t, he roots around his things looking for his wineskin.

Before he gets the chance to drink, Morgan calls out to him. “You shouldn’t drink that.”

“Worried I’ll get drunk?”

“No. You should poor it out, I’ve poisoned your wine.”

He blinks at the knight. “I beg your pardon?”

“My wine has the antidote. Not that you’d really need it. The poison would make you lethargic and drowsy, nothing dangerous expect in extreme situations.”

He’s too stunned to really feel any emotion. He tips his wineskin over and asks, “Why?”

“You know, when Prince Oberyn told me of this assignment I found the whole affair odd,” Morgan begins and he is still too astonished to be angry or irritated by this non-direct answer. “There are plenty of Dornish knights who could pass off as not Dornish, men who he wouldn’t have to coax away from women he holds dear. Then he asked me to keep watch over the knight he sent me with, a knight who the woman he has publicly accepted as a daughter obviously trusts and cares for. The prince was so concerned that you could try to escape that he asked me to enact precautionary measures. When Oberyn gave me the poison he told me ‘I hope you don’t need this, but just in case’, an oddity in itself because Oberyn always _sure_.”

He takes the information Morgan has given him and tries to piece together what Oberyn was concerned with. _A mission he didn’t have to go on, talk of escape, a poison that wouldn’t subdue him but would slow him down._ “Oberyn was worried I would abandon the task. This was a test.”

Morgan nods his head as he pours his own wine onto the ground. “I figured the quickly enough, but I still didn’t know why that was a concern. You took the task seriously and never once did it seem like you were considering leaving. And then you disappeared at, arguably, the worst time for you to run away. If you were going to run it should have been when we were with Renly’s army, where it would have been harder to notice that you were gone, not when it was just the two of us.”

The younger knight hesitates and he begins to wonder why Morgan is being do honest with him. “That’s when you looked through my things.”

Morgan looks away and scratches at his nose. “I was supposed to be suspicious of you. I looked through your things because it was odd to me that you would leave those. Who runs away with none of their supplies and none of their obviously important items? I only took your sword because those men were eager for a fight and it seemed like a waste not to use the best sword I have available to me.”

“Why were you with those men?”

“It didn’t take long for me find your trail, but I couldn’t just attack Catelyn Stark to get you back. I came across those men while I was following you. The knight honestly cared about Renly’s death, but the other two were just there because they thought bringing Loras Tyrell Lady Brienne’s head would put them in his good graces. And just because I wasn’t willing to attack Lady Stark doesn’t mean they weren’t willing.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you revealed to Lady Stark who you really are. Which means that, for days, you insisted that you weren’t you. But if you wanted to go back to your family, if you wanted to run to King’s Landing, there would be no need for the facade. She wanted to deliver you to them, if you wanted to go back it would have been in your best interest to confirm her suspicions and go along with her.”

“That doesn’t explain why you are telling me so much.”

Morgan sighs. “I think Oberyn was wrong to doubt you. I’m sure he did it because the prince has learned to expect the worst, but I believe it was unnecessary.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

“She’s not Oberyn’s daughter, is she?” He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t really need to. “I don’t know why everyone is acting so coy. I was there when the… egg hatched and it’s not like I have conflicting loyalties. But I get the need for secrecy.”

“Your point,” he stresses.

“Right,” and he thinks this is the first time he’s seen Morgan embarrassed. “Anyway, no one is looking to recognize a dead girl’s face. If you wanted to leave you would have done it a long time ago. You could have left her with her aunt and uncle, you could have dropped her off in Dorne and gone home, or you could have just abandoned her wherever and whenever.” Even though Morgan lays it out like it was the obvious choice, never once did he consider leaving Rhaenys. “And yet you didn’t.”

“What does that have to do with your straightforwardness?”

“Don’t play stupid, it doesn’t suit you.” It seems the rapport between him and Morgan has not suffered from Morgan learning who he really was. “You’ve proven your loyalty to her every time you didn’t leave her side in the last sixteen years. You proved your loyalty by being in throwing distance of your family and not leaving. I will not let suspicion fester and compromise that loyalty.”

“At the cost of exposing Oberyn?”

Morgan sends him a dry look. “I’ve spent months watching you. You are definitely petty, but not vindictive.”

He takes stock of himself, for a moment. “Fair enough.”

Morgan waits to see if he has anything else to say, before declaring that he was going to sleep. It leaves him with first watch but he feels little reason to complain. It’s the first time in a week he’s had free range of the camp instead of being tied to a tree and he is pleased with the freedom. His watch passes uneventfully and he spends a large part of it staring at the stars exposed by the cloudless night.

In the morning they eat, pack up their things, and race off towards the Blueburn. Like the day before, they don’t talk as they ride, but today lacks the tension the previous day had held.

The scenery passes by them in a blur of greens, browns, and yellows. They stick to the roads for most of the morning. They had considered not riding on the road, not wanting to spook other travelers, but with the war most people weren’t traveling on the road. And their assumptions are rewarded because they don’t come across anyone on the way.

It isn’t until near noon that they start to leave the road. There is a road that passes by the Blueburn, but it leads to Grassy Vale, not the source of the river, and there is no need for them to go that far. 

Morgan insists that he bathe before he does anything else. The younger knight goes so far as to offer to tend to his horse, so that he doesn’t feel rushed. Not willing to argue against a favor, he shrugs his shoulders and hands off his horse.

He pulls out another set of clothes from his pack and contemplates his current set. After a moment, he decides to try and wash them instead of just tossing them aside. He begins to strip down when he hears Morgan call out. “Don’t forget to dye your hair.”

He turns and sees that Morgan is in spitting distance. “Are you going to watch me?”

Morgan sends him a dry look before pulling out a brush from his things. The man turns away and begins to run the brush through his horse’s coat. “I’m not leaving you alone after what happened last time.” _Fair enough_.

He steps into the cool river waters and feels goosebumps run up his legs. It’s interesting the things a man can ignore when he has no choice. He hadn’t felt all that dirty, but seeing the dirt that comes off his skin and feeling the filth that still clings to him makes him feel disgusting.

He takes his time scrubbing grime off his skin. They were rushing back to Dorne and it was likely that they wouldn’t get the chance to bathe much along the way, so he was going to enjoy this moment as much as possible. The space buzzes with the sound of insects, the chirping of birds, the shuffling of their horse, and the splashing of water.

Eventually, after he has washed his clothes, set them out to dry, and has spent too much time trying to work knots out of his hair while still getting nowhere, the silence starts to grate. “Morgan,” he calls over his shoulder.

The knight answers with a distracted hum. He hadn’t thought about what he was going to say and is now stuck floundering. He considers asking the man about his father, but he doesn’t want to have the question turned around on him and have to recount Brandon Stark’s last hours. He must have been quiet for too long because he hears a sigh and the words, “What do you want Erwin?”

He grimaces at the name, but he can’t fault the knight for wanting to be safe. “What did you do when I was gone?”

“I told you, I tracked you.”

“And for almost two weeks all you did was huddle in the bushes watching me be lead around like an animal on a leash?” His words drip with disbelief.

“You’re lucky I’ve spent so much time with Prince Oberyn that snark no longer gets to me.” There is a pause and he hears the muted sound of Morgan patting on of their horses. “When your group strayed close enough to people, close enough that I was confident I could leave without losing your trail, I would leave to talk to those people.”

“Searching for anything in particular?”

“I was. I was looking for word about Lord Beric Dondarrion and his lot.”

The name sounds familiar to him and he searches his memory for why the name might mean something to him. After a moment, the knowledge comes to him. “The lord of your house was traveling with him. Did you learn anything?”

“I’ve learned all sorts of thing.” He’s not looking at the young knight, but he can feel hesitance bloom in the air. “Back in Renly’s camp I learned that Lord Dondarrion was tasked by Lord Eddard Stark to arrest Gregor Clegane back before there was outright war. The people there had said that neither hide nor hair had been seen of the man since then and had no idea where he could be.

“The people on the road were more willing to come to conclusions but less helpful. I’ve heard that Dondarrion was killed by Clegane in that initial encounter, but also that he has been struck down by a dozen others in a dozen different ways. I’ve also heard that he has been seen all through the westerlands, the riverlands, and the crownlands. I’ve heard that he is raiding Lannister troops, acting as a bandit and razing towns, or that he is the people’s savior and protecting smallfolk _from_ bandits.”

“But nothing about your cousin.”

“And nothing about my cousin.”

“I take it that you two were close.”

“Ned’s a hard boy to not be close to. He’s earnest and kind and oozes charisma from his ears. Ned didn’t care that his father didn’t want us to be friends, instead he insisted that we should be friends because we were family and you are supposed to love your family.”

He begins to make his way away from the water’s edge. He gently dries his newly dyed hair and checks to see if his clothes are dry enough to put away. “If your cousin was dead, I can’t imagine Lord Dondarrion wouldn’t bring his bones back to Starfall.” It’s not really a comfort, but sometimes not knowing was a comfort in itself.

Morgan doesn’t respond as they prepare their horses for continued travel. It’s isn’t until they are mounted and ready to go that Morgan finally says something to him. “Short of going further north and hunting around, we have no way of definitively knowing.” Morgan looks up at the sky before nudging his horse into a canter. “We should hurry back to the Water Gardens, we’ve already been gone too long.”


	30. Rhaenys

She doesn’t know what she was expecting when her uncle summoned her late into the afternoon. She comes up with a number of fanciful of scenarios, but nothing she imagined came close to the reality of the situation.

She isn’t expecting to find Oberyn in an isolated room in a relatively barren section of the castle. She isn’t expecting to find the man sprawled in a chair, alone at a table, inside the room. She isn’t expecting the oppressive silence pervading through the room.

Her uncle sees her as she walks in and waves her over to the table. Her footsteps sound loud in the silence of the space. She scans across the room. Aside from looking like an unlived bedroom, there is nothing of note in the room. She pulls out the chair next to her uncle and sits down. Oberyn leans forward in his chair and tilts his head to look at her. “Would you like some wine?”

“No, thank you.”

Oberyn picks up the pitcher and pours, what seems to be, the last of the wine into his cup. “Good. There doesn’t seem to be enough left for both of us.” She looks her uncle over and he doesn’t seem to be drunk, but she doesn’t have a lot of experience with drunks. Before she gets the chance to say anything, Oberyn tells her, “Tomorrow, I will be heading back to Sunspear in preparation for Princess Myrcella’s arrival. And once she is settled I will be heading to King’s Landing to see through the deal.”

“Only you will be going?”

Oberyn nods. “It’s best you stay by your Gilded Dread. And there is little reason for Ashara to go. She has little interest in the politics at play and there is no need for her to play hostess when Arianne is in Sunspear.”

She hums her understanding. She appreciates the information, but there is little need for her to know this. She looks at Oberyn trying to figure out why he called her here.

After a moment of staring at each other, Oberyn reaches out to take her hand. “Sometimes it is hard to look at you, little sun.” The use of the nickname reaches into her lungs and steals her breath away. It is not a nickname she had heard since her mother was still alive.

“Oh?”

Oberyn smiles, but it is something tinged with sadness. “You look just like she did when she was your age. You are taller and spry in a way Elia could rarely be, but it is enough. Sometimes I look at you and I am thrust into the past. Especially in this place, where we spent so much time together. And sometimes I look at you and I feel haunted by a beautiful ghost. A ghost who will not leave me because I was not there for her.” Oberyn squeezes her hand, as if to prove that she is solid.

“That’s not something I want for you.”

“I know it isn’t. But it is hard to come back to your dead. It is hard to come back to the knowledge that someone you love is dead and know that during that time you were doing nothing of worth and were in no hurry to come back.”

“I don’t think there is anything you could have done.”

Oberyn lets out a humorless laugh. “You are right. I’ve poured so much time into finding out what happened. Into seeing what could have been done, and my head knows that me being in Westeros would have changed little.” Oberyn takes his hand off his wine cup and sets it against his chest. “But like Ashara says, ‘the head has little say over the heart’ and my heart demands action.”

“I’m sure mama wouldn’t want you to torture yourself on her behalf.”

Oberyn grins. “No, she wouldn’t.” Slowly, the smile fades from his face and he squeezes her hand again. “I’m sure you and Doran think me foolish. Going north to pursue a revenge that we all know Elia wouldn’t have wanted.”

“Then why go?”

“My blood boils knowing that her murderers are living unpunished lives. That they have only been rewarded for their crimes. I know that Elia would want me here, with you. I know she would want me to find peace. But I cannot rest while my blood burns like it does. I go to attain the peace that will allow me to rest. I go in pursuit of justice.”

She spent a long moment looking at her uncle. He looked back at her, his eyes a mix of unrepentant certainty and weary melancholy. She brings her other hand up so that she could trap his hands in hers. “I hope you find what you are looking for.”

“Sometimes that is all we can have. Hope.” Her uncle takes is hand out of hers and he uses it to drink the rest of his wine. “I can feel this meeting coming to an end. But before you go I have something for you.”

“A going away present,” she says as she watches Oberyn with well-restrained curiosity. She watches her uncle lean over and reach for the empty chair at the table. He produces from its seat a nondescript leather envelope. He hands the pouch over to her and she finds that it is thick but in no way heavy. He waits for her to flip over the pouch’s flap before telling her what is inside.

“These are all the letters I have from her.” She isn’t sure if it’s her memory or his words but the handwriting feels familiar to her. “When I heard what happened I tried to gather every tangible scrap of her I could. Like I was paranoid that one day I would forget her.” Oberyn takes an unsteady breath. “I will never forget her influence in my life, I have little need to hold on to these reminders, and you have known her for so much less than I have. I don’t think you will forget her either, but I think you deserve the chance to know her.”

She can feel her eyes begin to water and she closes the pouch to make sure nothing gets wet. “Thank you. I-I don’t know what else to say.”

Oberyn reaches out and squeezes her shoulder. “It is alright, little sun. Sometimes there is no need for words.” She stands from her chair and embraces her uncle. He holds her tight before patting her back and saying, “Go. Rest. If you need anything I will be here until tomorrow.”

She clutches the envelope to her chest as she makes her way back to her room. Not tight enough to crinkle the papers in her grasp, but strong enough that someone would have to fight her for them. Still, for all her excitement about this connection to her mother, she doesn’t read any of the papers when she returns to her room. She is eager to pour through her mother’s writing, but she doesn’t want to go through it too quickly. She wants to make this connection last.

She goes to sleep and dreams of her mother. She dreams of the last time she had seen her mother write a letter. She dreams of wandering into the study her mother had disappeared in; in retrospect, her mother had valued her solitude and took measures to secure it, but she had never been reprimanded for interrupting that solitude. She dreams of walking up to her mother and asking what she was doing, of being pulled into her mother’s lap and of her mother whispering in her ear. “I am writing to my brothers,” she had said, “to let them know how we are doing.” She dreams of her mother adjusting her fingers, so that they would pinch the quill, and guiding her hand so that she could write her own name on the letter. She dreams of her mother carefully sealing the letter with bright gold wax, before sending the letters off. She dreams of being lifted into her mother’s arms and being carried off, to go check on Aegon. She dreams, but she does not _dream._

In the morning, she wakes up with the hazy memory of her mother’s face, backlit by sunlight. She traces the lines of her mother’s face in her mind. _Oberyn is right, I will never forget her. But the details are desperately trying to slip through my fingers._

This morning is very much like so many other mornings she has experienced. She eats with Ashara and they talk about everything and nothing. They talk about the state of the world, of the places she has seen, which Dornish lords were itching to join the war, of the clothes they had received from the seamstress, what correspondence they had received from the Sand Snakes, and a number of other things. After that, she goes out to the beach to interact with the children, waiting for Oberyn to leave. Attendants have prepared a horse for travel, but she has heard that her uncles have met for one final meeting.

Eventually, the beach begins to ripple with word that Oberyn is about to leave. She heads for the main courtyard and finds Ashara also waiting. After a moment, Oberyn walks out of the castle. He walks empty handed and with the swagger of a man in no rush to get where he is going.

He sweeps Ashara into a hug and presses a kiss to her cheek. “If Ellaria wants to go with you,” she says, “tell her that I will watch over the girls for her.” Oberyn nods his head and she presses a kiss to his cheek before letting go.

Oberyn steps towards her and pulls her into a tight embrace. “Take care of yourself, little sun,” he whispers into her hair. “Know that I love you. Know that she loves you.” With that, Oberyn presses a kiss to her temple and hold her at arm’s length.

He looks at her as though he is trying to memorize her face. A part of her wants to beg her uncle to stay, to convince him that there is no need for him to go. But he has made his motivations clear and she sees no way to deter him. Instead she tells him, “I eagerly await your return.”

He smiles at her and squeezes her arms, before letting go. She and Ashara huddle close as Oberyn walks away. They watch in silent vigil as Oberyn speaks to the attendants and checks over his horse. When he finds everything to his satisfaction he mounts his horse. He summons his minimal guard with a sharp whistle and turns to give them a final salute goodbye. They wave to him and stay there watching until he can no longer be seen from the gate.

They part ways after that. She doesn’t know where Ashara is headed, but she is headed for her little courtyard and Brightdawn. Balerion finds her on the way there. Her nosy cat winds his way between her ankles and keeps pace until she picks him up. He noses at her jaw and she coos at him in the way she knows he likes.

The walk to the courtyard is quiet, but all her experiences is this isolated wing were quiet. She was starting to feel like maybe her life would always necessitate fierce secrecy. That there would always be a part of herself she would have to keep hidden away.

She pushes the thought out of her head. _Today is not a day for melancholy thoughts._ She rounds the corner into the courtyard and Balerion tosses himself from her arms. Her cat ambles over to Brightdawn, waking up the dragon.

Balerion is by no means a small cat, weighing almost as much as the book _When Women Ruled,_ which she was still working through, but next to Brightdawn he looks tiny. Brightdawn uncurls from his sleep and swings his neck over to look at Balerion. Her cat holds up his head and sticks his nose out towards Brightdawn. Her dragon slowly lowers his head until Balerion’s nose touches the scales between Brightdawn’s nostrils.

The two separate after a moment and Brightdawn turns his gaze to her. Brightdawn’s gold eyes slowly blink at her as she approaches. She presses a kiss to her dragon’s forehead and he nudges his head into her chest. She rubs her hands against the scales of his face.

“One day,” she whispers, “you will be big enough to ride.” Brightdawn is already big enough that, while laying down, his shoulders come up past her waist. “Then I’ll know for certain if the breeze of riding a fast horse can compare to soaring through the air.” She can’t resist the smile that comes over her face when Brightdawn shakes his head, as though in disagreement. “Then we’ll know if you can feel the moisture inside of a cloud like a physical touch. And what cities look like from the sky. Or if being that high will make it feel like we can touch the stars.”

A part of her already felt like she could touch the stars. The moon sat large and heavy in the sky, just slightly less than full. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky tonight and it felt like every star was visible. They twinkled and blinked and looked far prettier than any jewels she had ever seen.

Brightdawn stands up, shakes himself, and begins to circle. Balerion meows out a complaint and she steps over to her cat to hold him. Brightdawn stretches his legs out and starts to beat his wings. Dust and leaves swirl in the air. She turns her head and raises one of her hand to cover Balerion’s eyes.

Once Brightdawn gets higher in the air she can turn back to look at him. It isn’t odd for Brightdawn to take off into the air, but usually he does it for food not just because. She watches as Brightdawn gets higher and higher. Brightdawn is black and gold, but most of that gold coloring is on the spikes of his back and in the membrane between his wings, though only when light shone through it. From the underside, Brightdawn is like a dark blotch of ink, that becomes harder to see the higher her gets. Eventually, the only way she knows where Brightdawn is flying is by watching the path of disappearing stars.

She waits to see if Brightdawn will circle back down. When that stretches on for too long, she settles down and waits from him to reappear. She hadn’t prepared for waiting and every time she thinks of getting up to get something to help pass the time, she thinks to herself that Brightdawn could reappear at any moment and doesn’t leave. Balerion curls against her side and she tries to entertain herself by petting him.

She doesn’t know how long she waits. She has no marker to tell the time. She watches as the moon makes its journey across the sky. Pays careful attention to the stars she can see and if she can still see all of them. Long enough that her neck had begun to ache. Long enough that she had begun to feel tired. Long enough that she laid on her back to attempt to combat the aching of her neck. Long enough that she had grown tired. Long enough for her to wonder if something terrible has happened. Long enough for her to wonder if he has just flown away. Long enough for her eyelids to droop. Long enough for her to stop paying attention to the stars. Long enough for her to lose her hold on her consciousness.

She wakes up. Startled by the warm and heavy weight that settles itself on her lap. Her hands shoot out and make contact with hard, textured ridges. She places what it is right when Brightdawn lets out a moist exhale across her hands. “Oh,” she murmurs, still too far into her sleep for anything louder. “You came back.”

Brightdawn lets out a low note. It sounds decidedly grumpy.

“You shouldn’t be upset, some people who go never come back.”

There is a huff and Brightdawn rests against her a bit more firmly, before letting up.

“It’s okay though. I understand the need for some freedom.” She doesn’t get to hear Brightdawn’s response to that. Almost as soon as the words leave her mouth, she is back asleep.


	31. Jon

Traveling alongside the wildlings was conflicting. Qhorin’s body hadn’t even had the chance to cool before they had begun to scavenge his body. There was no reason as to who got what. Whoever got there first got something, but there was also honor in that. Every scavenger got only one item and left the rest for someone else. And, while there was arguing over what someone else had taken, it was a lighthearted heckling that was more about entertainment than actual complaints.

But as much as he wanted to dislike their actions, it was obvious the wildlings were scavengers. All of them wore piecemeal armor and it was obvious they wore their things until they couldn’t be worn any longer. It was hard to fault them for taking Qhorin’s things when it was so much better than what most of them had. And even though it was obvious they did not trust him, they let him keep his things and his horse.

Then there was Rattleshirt. A man who was easy to hate because he hated him. The wildling wasted no chance to remind him that he did not like him, that he was eager to see him dead. The man called him a _crow_ like it was an insult and casts him glares any time he is in the man’s eye line. The _Lord of Bones_ was also a man drunk on power, which made him even easier to hate.

But even if Rattleshirt was drunk on his command, the rest of the troop cared little for his authority. Where Rattleshirt was sure that Mance would see through him, it felt like the rest of the wildlings had already accepted him as one of them. They did not harm him, they did not berate him, and they did not threaten him. If anything, the guard that had been assigned to him almost defended him from the man. They were not afraid to shame the Lord of Bones into leaving him alone.

And even if the rest of them didn’t defend him, they did treat him well. It wasn’t just that they didn’t mistreat him, but they went out of their way to do things for him. They made sure he got to keep his things, they made sure he got decent food, and, in their unique way, they involved him in conversations. Being involved in their conversations meant questions disguised by teasing, they asked if he was comfortable, if he was ready to face the _King Beyond the Wall_ , if he ate enough, if he was ready to be free, and other questions of the like. They were nice to him in a brash and unavoidable way that people had rarely been to him.

It was nice. But Rattleshirt reminded him of the one thing he should not forget, he was a hostage. Whatever happened to him depended on the judgement of Mance Rayder. It didn’t matter if the wildlings were kind to him or if they cared for him, if Mance gave the order he was dead. It could be that this was just a long march to his death.

He appreciated that the wildlings were a loud bunch; it made the travel pass faster, it helped him learn things about them, and it keep him from thinking too much. But he had no defense at night. When they huddled around the fire to go to sleep, it left him in silence with his own thoughts. He had never been good at falling asleep quickly, but it felt even harder to fall asleep out here.

It’s only the eighth night he’s spent with the wildlings and he has already spent more than half of those nights desperately trying to fall asleep. Tonight is no exception, as he stares up at the stars. When he was very young, his nursemaid had suggested counting objects around him; when he was a little bit older, he and Robb used to run around until exhaustion made sleep comes easy; only a few years back, he had asked Vorian what he could do and the Dornishman had advised that he think back to a time he had felt tired and to hold on to that feeling.

Tonight, he tried to do what Vorian had advised, but the last time he had felt tired was right before he had dreamed as Ghost and thinking of that night made him think of what he didn’t want to think about. _But Vorian has also told me, after I asked why he sat so much in contemplation in the godswood, that our ghosts only grow more insistent if we ignore them. And I’ve turned Qhorin into a ghost to haunt me. Maybe the least I can do is give him my attention, at least until I fulfill the last task he assigned me._ With his mind made up and a grim determination, he reviews his final interactions with Qhorin Halfhand.

He decides to begin with what Qhorin had told him about Mance Rayder. Every lesson he had ever received on tactics demanded that he needed to know his enemy, and, with Mance being the one who could make all this pointless, he decided to focus on that first. Qhorin had told him that Mance had been a sworn brother before he had deserted and became king. That Mance had been a wildling child brought to the Watch, raised to one day join their ranks. No one truly knew why Mance had deserted, but Qhorin had claimed it had been because Mance preferred the freedom of being a wildling. And that Mance had a passion for music.

He then thinks to the conversation after that. Qhorin sending him off with Ygritte had been a test for the man to better know him. Upon reflection. it was a low stakes test; if he killed Ygritte that would be the end of it, but if he let her go there was little she could do against them. He wonders what not killing her told Qhorin about him, aside from the fact that he did not have it in him to kill her. Did his actions reveal him as a coward or did his actions show that he was a moral man? Did it expose that he had doubts over the Watch’s cause or did it show that he valued life above war? _If it weren’t for this test Ygritte would be dead. And I wouldn’t have had to kill Qhorin. But then we’d probably both be dead._ He opened and closed the fingers of his burnt hand, in the cold the tension inside them was more noticeable.

Qhorin had been the first to believe that his dream was real. The one to insist that he give the details that convinced everyone else. He had also been the one to treat Ghost’s wound. The one to continue with resolute purpose as the wildlings pursued them, as the rest of their group slowly separated and died. He thinks back to when Qhorin had sent Ebben away. Ebben had suggested he go instead, _maybe Ebben was trying to give me the chance to return,_ but Qhorin had said he had a different part to play. _Did he know then, what he was going to ask me to do?_ As he tries to pick apart every interaction around that time, to see if he could find when Qhorin had come to the idea, sleep creeps up on him.

He could almost weep at the warmth in his dream. It has only grown colder the longer he stays past the Wall, and though the warmth in his dream isn’t actually all that warm, it feels balmy and soft. He tries to settle into the heat, to bask as much as possible in the feeling of the dream.

But as he settles into the feeling he finds that warmth isn’t the only thing there, that it might not be the only reason why he might weep. He feels a tightness in his back that twinges as his dreamself moves. His never been injured in this fashion, but he is familiar enough with injuries to recognize it as one. His dreamself shifts again and he can piece together that the injury is old, that it is mostly on its way to healed, but that it has not faded enough to be forgotten.

He settles into the feelings even further and feels grief weigh down on his shoulders. Its suffocating and consuming. It stings of loss and loneliness, like something he loved was taken from him. He feels as though he is the only one left. He feels as though he has abandoned the people he loved, as though he left them to die.

And this grief is only made stronger by doubt. He’s won the battles, he’s tactics have been sound, but what does he have to show for it? His trust had been misplaced and it had cost him his _family,_ his _home._ What was he doing? What was he doing it for?

The feelings are too much. He tries to separate himself from the dreamself. He just manages to do so. Tearing himself from the feelings, the grief and the pain begin to fade, but so does the warmth. With that distance comes a clarity. There is more to the dream than these feelings.

This person is in a room and while he can see the room the details are fuzzy. The space is dark and candlelit. It could be a bedroom or an infirmary, but it’s had to tell with how everything refuses to focus. He spots movement out of the corner of his eye and turns to face that.

He spots another person. He thinks they may be a woman, with long hair and pale skin. He can tell that she is preparing something. The only sound he can hear is the slight gurgle of liquid being poured. He watches her move and it never occurs to him to turn back and look at the other person in the room.

She finishes her task and turns toward the injured and grieving man. He sees her fiddle with the cup, hesitating by the table she prepared the drink at, before coming to a decision. He thinks he can make out that her lips are moving, but he can’t hear any words. All he can hear is the slight sloshing of the liquid in the cup.

She approaches the grieving man, bringing the cup closer to his vision. The liquid looks unremarkable, dark and of a normal consistency. But, while the cup looks unremarkable, ideas seem to sprout in his mind. He is struck by the knowledge that he _knows_ what is in the cup. He doesn’t know if it is wine, or liquor, or some medicinal brew, but he _knows_ what is in the cup. He knows that the cup contains a temporary solace, a release from the emotions weighing the man down, a loss of inhibitions.

The knowledge seems to break his grip on the dream. Things start to fade even more. The people in the room start to lose their definition. They become shapeless blobs that only hold meaning because he remembers what they were. It all narrows down to the cup held in between the pair and the hands holding it.

Just as the cup exchanges hands, he feels something cold press against his cheek. His eyes flutter open and he sees Ghost right in his face. The direwolf nuzzles his face before moving to lay against him. The direwolf bullies his way into his space and lets out a warm exhale once he is comfortable.

He basks in the unconditional warmth Ghost provides and tries to go back to sleep. He tries to remember what he just dreamed, but all the details escape his grasp. Right as he is beginning to fade away, he thinks, _there was love in that cup._ He falls back asleep and this time there is nothing but darkness. That night, he does not sleep easy, but he sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have distilled Jon to his barest essentials, personal conflict and 'opens and closes his fingers'.   
> BTW I don't buy into the Jeyne love potion theory, but I do believe that Robb could have been under some influence (like alcohol) because I don't believe sex is normal teenage grieving behavior.


	32. Jaime

They make it to Sunspear in the middle of the night. It’s only because the castle guard recognizes Morgan that they are allowed past the city walls at this hour. Even though them returning is important, they both agree that they shouldn’t wake up Oberyn at this hour and go their separate ways.

That doesn’t stop him from asking one of the ever-present servants to prepare him a bath. Dorne takes their bathing seriously and, in no time, there is a brass tub full of steaming water in his room. Though for him, the bath is less about the hot water and more about the soaps. They had been away for far longer than they had planned to be and some of their supplies had not lasted long enough for the final stretch.

Once he’s scrubbed himself pink and he smells like the mild, aloe soap he was given, he lays down for bed. After so many nights of sleeping on a beaten bedroll on the ground, laying on a featherbed is indescribable. He falls asleep in record time and experiences a dreamless sleep.

He wakes up feeling rested and refreshed. Morgan finds him right as he finishes getting dressed. Morgan informs him that Oberyn will meet them now, over food, and leads him away.

The prince is already eating when they arrive. It is an excessive spread: with tiny quail eggs, circles of soft flat bread, dishes full of red and green sauces, braised and shredded meat, fried chunks of fish, lime wedges and garnishes, roasted chilies, triangles of bread filled with something, and pitchers he knows to be filled with chilled drinks. It is far too much for one man, but Oberyn gestures for them to sit and join him. With another impatient gesture, Oberyn gives them permission to start eating. “I see you kept the brown hair,” Oberyn points out. He had continued coloring his hair out of habit and availability, it’s not like he would have much of a use for the dye once he started dressing like a Dornish guard again. “I can’t say it suits you, but it was a sensible choice.”

He considers making a joke, but he lets the impulse pass. Instead he pours himself a cup of the bright red hibiscus tea that Rhaenys loves and drinks some of that. It doesn’t escape his notice that there is no wine at the table. Oberyn gives them a moment to eat some food before asking them to report.

They go into detail about what they learned at Renly’s camp. They give him numbers, who provided how many men, what lords got along well with other lords, about Catelyn Stark’s attempt at diplomacy, and everything else that happened before Stannis’s arrival. He lets Morgan cover most of what happened after they followed Renly to Storm’s End, in part because most of their information overlaps but also because he wants to see if Morgan will tell Oberyn about his kidnapping.

Morgan goes into detail about how Stannis’s arrival had caused little guilt in the stormlands lords; about the little they had heard about the meeting between the brothers; about Renly’s murder and all the theories about who was responsible, including the truth, though he paints it as a story; about the slaughter Loras Tyrell had, apparently, wrought after finding Renly’s body; and the little bit they knew about where some lords had scattered to. Morgan does not mention that he had been recognized and taken by Lady Stark. Morgan doesn’t make any justification about why they took so long getting back and Oberyn doesn’t ask. He’s left to wonder if the lack of questioning has to do with Oberyn trusting Morgan to give all relevant details, or if Morgan knew that Oberyn would find an excuse suspicious and knew to avoid them all together.

“We’ve already learned some of the things you’ve informed us about; in particular, Renly’s death. But knowing the extent of Renly’s army makes his death all the more suspicious. It’s very fortunate for everyone involved that Renly died locked away in the safety of his castle, before he got the chance to meet anyone in combat.” The comment sounds more speculative than anything else, so neither of them respond.

Oberyn shift things around and leans forward on the table. “Regardless, the situation has changed. Since you’ve been gone, Robb Stark has conquered half of the westerlands, Stannis has taken Storm’s End and has shifted his attention to King’s Landing, Tywin Lannister has made up no ground against Robb Stark, Balon Greyjoy has pronounced himself king, and we have made a tentative alliance with the crown.”

He is fortunate he isn’t drinking anything because he’s sure that if he had been it would be in his lungs right now. Next to him, Morgan lets out a disbelieving “What?”

“Tyrion Lannister has offered Dorne a seat on the council and my sister’s killers, in exchange for our indifference and a betrothal. Besides, as much as I’d like to see Tywin Lannister dead, the war is shaking out in the Lannister’s favor and we have nothing to gain from open war against them.”

“In the Lannister’s favor?” He can’t resist asking. He is aware that war is a fickle beast, but he can’t imagine how his family managed to get circumstances in their favor. “Renly was starving King’s Landing and Stannis is experienced enough to know that it is in his best interest to continue that. They’ve won no major battles and most of the kingdom is against them. How are things looking well for the crown?”

“Luck mostly. Who would have thought that making Tyrion Lannister Hand of the King would have been the best decision the crown has made?” A part of him swells with pride to hear that his brother has been successful. “It seems that Lord Tyrion saw an opportunity and sent an agent of the crown to speak with the Tyrells after Renly’s death. I have it on good authority that a Lord Petyr Baelish was able to convince the Tyrells that it was in their best interest to side with the crown. All those soldiers you’ve just reported are likely on their way to King’s Landing, if they aren’t there already, unblooded and angry about their previous king’s suspicious death. And, from what you’ve said, it sounds like Stannis won’t have won enough of the kingless lords to hold against the Tyrells, much less match them.”

It sounds like the conflict, at least the southern part of the conflict, was mostly over. Stannis would have had little issue taking King’s Landing before, but with the Tyrell force headed to the city he would be hard pressed to win, especially if he didn’t know the Tyrells were coming. Not succeeding at taking King’s Landing would likely be the beginning of the end of Stannis’s run as king.

The Greyjoy naming himself king was likely a ploy to separate the Iron Islands from the rest of Westeros. The man was likely trying to capitalize on the crown’s weakness, but with three, maybe four depending on how much of the stormlands sided with Stannis, of the seven kingdoms allied with the crown, he doubted his father would just let Balon have his way. And on top of that, Balon would only have the support of his own people, which made his chances of success even worse.

That only left Robb Stark with a serious chance at remaining king. But he knew that Catelyn Stark was tired of the war. _Considering their reason for going to war is dead, would they continue the conflict if Tyrion managed to give Lady Stark her daughters back?_ His brother would be doing the impossible, he doubts his father would just allow them to give the Starks their girls back, but if he managed it would that be enough? If returning the Stark girls was enough to get the North to back down, that would only leave the Iron Islands as a problem, since the Vale had remained uninvolved.

His thoughts circle back to what Tyrion promised Dorne. “Who’s going to ensure the crown fulfils what it promised?”

The grin that comes over Oberyn’s face can only be described as feral. “I will.”

His eyebrows raise, but it is Morgan who asks, “You’re going to King’s Landing?”

“I am. Doran cannot go and there is no one else with the authority needed for this agreement.” Somehow the feral grin becomes even stronger. “It also ensures that we get the results we want.”

“When do you leave?”

Oberyn finishes his drink and replies, “With you two back, I can leave today. The preparations have been made. The Lords and Ladies of Dorne have been informed, the route has been planned, Sunspear has been settled, all that is left is for me to make the decision to leave.”

Morgan shifts in his chair. “Who will you be taking with you.”

“From Sunspear, only Ser Daemon Sand. You two are to return to the Water Gardens at your soonest convenience.” While Oberyn had said at their soonest convenience, the phrase was meant to be understood as ‘leave as soon as you are able’.

They nod their understanding and, with a gesture from Oberyn, stand up to leave. They step out into the hallway and Morgan motions away from Oberyn’s door. He follows the young knight into another hallway. The guards pay them no mind as they walk past. He had not been in these halls since the assassins tried to kill Rhaenys and Ashara, since the dragon had been born. _I wonder how big he’s gotten since we’ve been gone._

Morgan turns to look at him. “I assume you are ready to leave immediately.”

“I am.” He had been so focused on getting clean and going to sleep that he hadn’t even thought about his things besides getting them in the room.

Morgan hums. “I’d like to speak with the Snakes before we leave, but I can be quick about it. It shouldn’t take more than an hour and then we can be on our way.”

He’s about to respond, when a woman’s voice sounds through the hallway, “Morgan!” He turns his head and sees Arianne Martell approaching them. The princess pulls Morgan into a hug and turns her attention to him. “Who is your friend?”

Morgan waves vaguely towards him. “This is Ser Erwin, Mara’s knight.”

Arianne looks him over and he mislikes the attention. He can almost feel the way her eyes rake over his body and focus on his face. “Is he,” she asks and he can see Morgan frown slightly. “And how is she? No one has told me why she left for the Water Gardens, and she’s been there an awful long time.”

He pulls up his blandest, apologetic smile. “She left because she was feeling rather nostalgic for a beach. And once she was there she grew enamored with the place.”

“Oh? Well, do tell her that I miss her and that I would like to see her soon.”

“I’ll be sure to tell her.”

Arianne leans forward like she is going to tell him something else, when Morgan interrupts her. “Is that Princess Myrcella?”

He looks over in the direction Morgan is looking at and there is no question who he is talking about. Even without the Kingsguard shadowing her steps, the girl is a model Lannister. _She looks exactly like Cersei looked at that age._ Myrcella had her mother’s golden curls, bright green eyes, and fair skin. They girl looks so much like Cersei, it’s almost like she was birthed from her alone, without the aid of a father.

“It is. If you’ll excuse me.” Arianne steps away from them and heads in the girl’s direction.

He doesn’t recognize the young knight, but he is sure that Selmy would have disapproved of the man. Both because of his youth and the way the man’s eyes settle lower than Princess Arianne’s face. _Not that it matters,_ he thinks to himself as he remembers, _Selmy was dismissed from the Kingsguard. What they were thinking when they made that choice is beyond me._

He turns back to Morgan and finds the young knight looking at him. “You should wait for me in the stables. I shouldn’t be long.” The knight doesn’t give any indication as to why he is suggesting this, but he understands anyway.

He nods his head and leaves. He swings by his room to retrieve his things, then heads for the stables. He isn’t looking forward to more riding, but it should be the end of it for the foreseeable future. He can’t wait until he can relax at the Water Gardens; where he doesn’t have to worry about pretending to be someone, or trying to secretly gathering intelligence, or having much of any responsibility, really. Where he can sleep in late and eat nice food and spend his day trailing behind Rhaenys.

True to his word, Morgan does not take long. The young knight thanks him for preparing a horse and they ride off. They don’t rush their horses, but they also don’t go slowly. They’ve been on horses too long to go anywhere near fast, but both of them are eager for this to be over. It’s still daylight when they reach the Gardens, but not for much longer.

Again, Morgan’s presence allows them into the castle without issue. The guard instantly recognizes the younger knight and wishes them a warm welcome back. Once inside attendants take their horses off to the stables. Attendants also offer to take their things to their rooms and take their things off their hands.

He gets a couple of feet into the courtyard, when he hears quick footsteps coming towards him. He turns just in time to get a face full of black hair. “You’re back,” Rhaenys exclaims as she catches him in a tight hug. He squeezes her back and inhales the flowery, lemony scent of her hair.

He pulls away to look at her and the smile on her face makes the corners of his own mouth lift. She looks the same as when he left; he doesn’t know why he thought she would look different, but he is relieved to see she looks the same. Her hair sits in loose waves around her shoulders, her skin glows golden, and, when the sunlight hits her eyes just right, he can see violet hidden in the darkness.

Morgan approaches them and Rhaenys steps away from him to sweep the young knight into a hug. Morgan stands still for a moment, look just slightly surprised, before he returns the embrace. He feels a tug on his pants and reaches down to pick up Balerion. The cat touch his wet nose to his skin, but nothing more. He doesn’t catch if the pair exchange any words, but Rhaenys lets go of the knight and lets out a delighted laugh. Seemingly unable to resist her charm, he catches a soft smile on Morgan’s lips as Rhaenys shifts back towards him.

“It’s good to see both of you again.”

“It is good to see you again, Lady Mara.” Rhaenys is poised enough not to scrunch her nose at being addressed by the wrong name. He and Balerion have no such poise.

“I am eager to hear all about your travels.”

“I’m sure Ser Erwin could tell you everything there is to know.”

“Surely, you two didn’t spend all that time together.” Rhaenys doesn’t get to see the look Morgan sends him, because she is too busy picking her cat out of his arms, which is a shame because it is an, appropriately, exasperated look.

“That is true. I’d be more than willing to tell you about it.” Rhaenys twirls around to smile at Morgan, but the effect is ruined by Balerion’s unhappy meow. “Do you happen to know where my mother is?”

“Lady Ashara is reading on one of the terraces. The covered one near the wall, if I am not mistaken. I’m sure she’d be happy to know you are back.”

With that, Morgan excuses himself and heads off towards the castle. Rhaenys shifts Balerion onto one arm and links the other arm with his. She leads him off into the castle and, while their movements are swift, he feels a relaxed calm come over him.

“I’ve missed you,” she says as she leans her shoulder against his.

Without hesitation, he responds, “I’ve missed you as well.”


	33. Jon

Once he and Mance finish their talk, he lets people come back in. Dalla’s sister Val is the first one back. With some of his anxiety calmed, he gets the chance to get a better look at her. The woman’s hair lays in one large braid across one of her shoulders, showcasing the varying browns and yellows of her hair. Her grey-blue eyes sweep over him, before she settles back into her seat. Jarl does not come back with her, but it doesn’t seem like a concern for her.

Styr is the next one in. The earless man takes a look at him before returning to his maps. He might have been fooled into thinking the magnar had no issue with him, if he hadn’t noticed the distrustful glances that constantly flickered his way. With Mance accepting him, it seemed Styr was not willing to openly question the decision.

After Styr, comes Tormund. The large red haired man takes a look at him and smiles. At least, that’s what he would like to interpret the gesture as, since the way he does it bares a few too many teeth. Still, the man claps him on the arm like they are friends and sits down. He’s unsure if the man is really that trusting, of either him or Mance’s judgement, or if Tormund is just better at hiding his discontent. _A man can hide many things under the appearance of friendliness._

Behind them comes Rattleshirt, someone who can be heard before he is seen. The man’s enmity for him is clear in the glare leveled his way. The man already hated him and he knew Mance accepting him wouldn’t do much to change that hate. While he had seen that the wildlings had little discipline and respect for their superiors, Rattleshirt does not speak out against Mance. Maybe it was because Mance was the King Beyond the Wall, or maybe it was because even Rattleshirt knew that there was a time and a place for that type of behavior.

In the time it took for people to filter back in, he has removed his black cloak. He folds it over his arm, if asked he would say that it was cold here and that it would be a waste of good fabric to get rid of it. Mance makes a show of accepting him into their ranks, but it is Dalla who actually offers him the new cloak.

It’s a simple sheepskin cloak; undyed, roughly finished, and a bit musky. When Dalla hands it over, she quietly informs him that the fleece should be worn on the inside, so he can be warmer. He can’t help the smile that comes over his face and she responds with a soft smile of her own. Dalla does not have the same striking beauty her sister has, but he can see what Mance saw in her.

While Mance had made a show of him getting the cloak, there is little fanfare when he puts the thing on. No one’s expression or demeanor really changes, but Val does raise her cup slightly at him. Mance takes stock of the lack of change and then assigns him to ride with Tormund. He can tell that Rattleshirt does not like the change, but again the man does not voice his discontent. Tormund tells him to wait outside and he goes without a word.

Outside the tent, he finds Ygritte and Ryk with Ghost. Ryk immediately hoots at seeing him in the sheepskin coat and Ygritte looks at him with a broad smile on her face. Ghost approaches him and he kneels to sink his fingers into his direwolf’s coat. They both claim that they knew Mance would take him, but don’t get much farther than that.

Tormund steps out and tells him to follow. He doesn’t tell Ryk and Ygritte that they can’t follow, but they don’t anyways. They watch him leave, but they don’t approach. Tormund has him go retrieve his horse and, when the man isn’t looking, he shoves his black cloak under the saddle.

His eyes scan over the different clustering of wildlings. Some of the clusters look somewhat like warrior encampments, but other clusters look more like families camping out in the wilderness. _When Mance claims to have gathered all the wildlings, he does mean all the wildlings. He isn’t just recruiting an army, he’s relocating these people. Every village near the Wall was abandoned, could Mance have truly united all the Free Folk under him?_

People notice as Tormund walks by. Some call out, some wave, few approach, but just about everyone looks. Tormund responds to a number of them, not all of them, but as many of them as he can without losing speed. No one approaches him, but, by virtue of walking next to Tormund, he does get a lot of looks. Even with his mostly black dress, he notices no unpleasant looks.

They reach a cluster that seems more organized than the rest. It is by no means as organized as a proper war camp, but there is an obvious order to the cluster. The people here are much more willing to approach Tormund and he quickly realizes that these are Tormund’s people. There is an easiness in the way the man interacts with these people and it makes him realize that Tormund had been more respectful with the others he had spoken to. That respect looked nothing like Northern respect, but he begins to see the difference.

Tormund introduces him to those clustered around them and then guides him through the camp. Again, these people stare at him, but he doesn’t see contempt or wariness in their eyes. With Tormund by his side, they quickly accept him as one of their own and he realizes that these people trust Tormund almost unquestionably. _Tormund moves with all the authority Rattleshirt wishes he had and isn’t the slightest bit arrogant about it._

Tormund announces that they will ride tomorrow and he spends the rest of the day trying to adjust to this new group of wildlings. It’s both easier and harder with this bunch. Tormund bringing him along means that they treat him well; they speak to him, they feed him, they make space for him. It’s harder because while they trust Tormund, they don’t trust him; they speak about everything but nothing really, they’ve been told who he is so they don’t try to know him, they move for him and make sure to keep some distance.

That distance fades a bit after they leave, with Ygritte and Ryk riding alongside them. This blatant connection with them, the fact that two wildlings care enough about him to follow him, means something to them. It closes some of the distance, it makes him more approachable. They begin to tell him things of substance; he learns that Tormund’s people are from the Bay of Ice, that they were some of the first that Mance convinced to join him, and that while words were how Mance convinced Tormund, they did indulge in some combat with Tormund being the loser, but only by a hair they claim. They also grow closer to him, though most of his interactions are limited to Tormund, Ryk, and Ygritte.

He rode alongside Tormund when they were moving. He was sure it was because the wildling didn’t fully trust him and was keeping an eye on him, but also because Tormund seemed to like the sound of his own voice. It was easy to get the man talking and then learn more about the free folk. He learns that there can be an astounding amount of differences between wildling tribes and, even if there isn’t, tribes pride themselves on their distinctions. Tormund also asks him questions about the Night’s Watch, but their mostly rhetorical and a lead into other things the wildling wants to talk about. He spends quite a bit of time trying to distinguish what he has been told is worth knowing and what is useless.

When they stop riding he spends most of the time taken setting up camp, with Ryk. Ryk was friendly before, when they were escorting him to Mance, but now, without Rattleshirt watching over them, he has become even friendlier. Ryk helps him set things up, introduces him to other people, and saves things for him like a spot by the fire or warm food. Ryk tells him about his childhood and then asks about his own. He could almost consider Ryk a friend, _except he can’t be my friend, because that is not why I am here for. I cannot consider someone my friend when I’ve been planning on betraying them since before I met them._

And then there was Ygritte, who did everything she could to spend the night with him. She left him alone when they were riding, most people did respecting Tormund’s authority too much to interrupt these questionings, but she was never far. Once they set up for the night, Ygritte hovered around him, always in arms-length if he allowed it. The woman’s open want for him was both embarrassing, _everyone_ had something teasing to say about them, and flattering, no one had ever paid him the attention she was paying him. Still, he is a man of the Night’s Watch and he tries his best to spur her affection.

He’s trying to enjoy the little peace he has right now, while Ygritte is away doing something, he hadn’t bothered asking. He’s sitting next to a campfire listening to fat sizzle on the fire. The hunters managed to catch a large buck and he had not had well cooked meat in far too long. Aside from some lighthearted teasing, they let him stare at the fire waiting for the buck to cook.

It isn’t until after he’s gotten a piece carved off, that Tormund approaches him. The golden armbands the man wears glint in the fire light, highlighting the size of the man’s upper arm. Tormund gets his own chunk of meat before sitting down across from him. “It’s rare to see you so alone.”

He feels his ears begin to warm, “Ygritte said there was something she wanted to do.”

Tormund lets out a large booming laugh and he feel the heat in his ears creep down his neck and onto his cheeks. “She is not who I was talking about. Though her not being pressed against your side is also rare.”

His words startle the heat from his face. “Who were you talking about?”

“Your white shadow. The direwolf.” He tosses his head around and, true enough, Ghost is nowhere to be seen. Tormund grins at his floundering.

“I didn’t notice he was gone,” he admits. Ghost did leave his side all the time to hunt for food, but usually the direwolf waited he was getting ready to sleep to leave, usually waking him up in the middle of the night on his return.

Tormund reaches over and pats him on the shoulder, with far more strength than necessary. “I’m sure the beast will be fine. His kind survived in this place long before ours did.”

He nods his head, but he isn’t concerned about Ghost being gone as much as he is concerned by what Ghost being gone _means_. Until now, Ghost had only left him alone with the wildlings the bare minimum possible. Ghost had acted as a visual marker of his wariness, a literal guard dog that watched over him. Ghost leaving him alone told him that he no longer felt like he needed a guard dog. That his wariness of the free folk had diminished.

 _I’m going to betray them, I have been planning to since before I met them. Trusting them, liking them, is not a risk I can afford,_ but even with that knowledge in mind, he found himself charmed by the free folk.


	34. Rhaenys

She’s only slightly embarrassed by how much better her mood is now that Jaime is back. She interacted with a number of people on a daily basis, but while Jaime was away it felt like Ashara and Doran were the only people she could honestly be herself with. Just having Jaime in her presence lifted her spirits, but being able to interact with him again lifted them even further. She enjoyed hearing about his travels, telling him about the book she was reading, listening to him snark at Balerion, and she even enjoyed the sound of his footsteps shadowing hers, something she never knew she found comfort in until it was gone.

Having Jaime back also made her nightly vigils for Brightdawn easier. After that first night, her dragon had taken to disappearing for the night, returning early enough in the night that he wasn’t exposed by the lightened sky of dawn. With Jaime back she could unabashedly nap during those watches, instead of trying to stay up all night and waking up exhausted.

She hadn’t told anyone that Brightdawn was leaving, aside from Jaime. They were supposed to be keeping her dragon secret, but she didn’t have it in her to keep him here. Early on she had asked Brightdawn to stay and he had done what she had asked. But after half a week of watching her dragon sulk and look at her sadly, she had told him he could go. She didn’t want to tell anyone else because the only way to guarantee that Brightdawn stayed would be to _force_ him to stay; and if asking him to stay was difficult for her, the _idea_ of Brightdawn chained into this place was too much to handle. After watching Brightdawn disappear into the sky that first night, she knew that dragons were not meant for captivity, they were meant for freedom. Besides, Brightdawn must have been stealthy enough, because if someone had seen him, _surely,_ she would have heard about it by now.

Not one to make issues where there are none, she lets the situation lie. Besides, she was enjoying being able to interact with people too much to risk further isolation. She’s already begun to grow restless here. She feels like she knows every inch of this castle and she definitely knows the names and faces of everyone here, including the guards whose faces cannot be seen on a regular basis. She’s beginning to feel stifled by the lack variety in this place; she knows what people want to talk about, she knows the games the children play, and she knows the things that will be asked of her.

A part of her misses her time before arriving back to Westeros, she misses the uniqueness of her life in each of those foreign cities. She misses working in the libraries of Myr; misses reading dusty old tomes few people got to see, misses the tranquility of copying fraying texts onto fresh pages, misses the challenge of trying to identify forgeries from authentic texts, and she even misses her grumpy, old, quick-to-complain mentor Corosh. She misses the distinctiveness of the Summer Isles; misses listening to the unrestrained wildlife of the place, misses hearing about the vivid history written on the Talking Trees, misses her archery lessons, and she misses her tutor and her daughter, who had always been so kind to her. She doesn’t miss much of Volantis, visiting that city had been a necessary evil and an exercise in patience, but she does miss the ability to overhear all the odd stories that came in from the port. And she especially misses Braavos; misses racing around the foggy streets, misses floating in a boat down one of the canals, misses watching the Bravos walk by in their colorful clothes, misses talking her friends out of trouble, misses having friends, and she particularly misses Bella, the only person she ever considered her best friend. While she misses the novelty of her life then, she greatly misses the fact that people then had wanted to interact with her because of who she _was_ , not because of the authority she held.

In an attempt to recapture that kind of relationship, she’s trying to isolate her target. Here in the Water Gardens, Morgan was her best chance at a friend of mostly equal footing, and they had been on their way to becoming friends before they came to this castle and she stopped seeing him. After coming back from his trip north, Morgan had begun to interact with her again, but those interactions had mostly happened in front of people and tended to be minimal and polite. She was hoping that, if she got Morgan alone, they could renew their budding friendship.

She’s already left Jaime with Ashara in pursuit of this endeavor. Jaime and Ashara shared an interest in knightly history so, with a few well-placed questions, Jaime and Ashara had been too engrossed in their conversation to notice her leave. Now she’s wandering through the castle looking for Morgan. She finds him standing on the beach, looking out towards the ocean. She gathers her skirts in her hand and walks towards him.

She is sure he noticed her approach, he tilts his head in her direction but he doesn’t turn to look at her. She doesn’t say anything once she’s next to him. Morgan usually has such a serious face, but right now she would describe his face as thoughtful, as though he was drifting in his thoughts.

“What’s it like? Being out at sea?”

She thinks a moment. She’s been at sea plenty of times but she has never really thought of it. “It’s awkward at first, but you get used to the rocking pretty quickly. After that it’s… like being in a bubble; isolating but not in a bad way, isolating in a peaceful way.” She remembers one of her nights on the _Lover’s Remembrance_ and smiles to herself. “On a bright, cloudless night it is beautiful. The stars reflect on the ocean and it’s like being cocooned by the sky.”

He nods his head. When he doesn’t say anything, she asks, “Have you never been to sea?”

“No. I’ve only ever traveled on land. And not all that far; my mother and Oberyn rarely left Dorne.” With that, he turns to look at her. “Did you need something?”

She summons her most charming smile. “I was wondering if you’d like to sit and have a snack with me?”

He smiles back at her and nods. “Lead the way.”

Even though he tells her to lead the way, they walk side by side. Once they reach the edge of the beach they stomp the sand off their shoes and link arms. As they walk they make small talk about how their day has been and what they’ve been doing.

She leads him up to her favorite terrace. In preparation for this, she asked an attendant to set up some food and she can see bowls already laid out on the table. They separate and sit on opposite sides of the, small, table. She pours herself a rice milk drink and begins to pick at some of the fruit laid out.

“I take it you’re not a fan of wine,” Morgan says as he pours himself lemon water.

“Ah no, not particularly. If you’d like I can go ask for some.”

“No, it’s alright. I just find it odd since all the other Snakes like wine.”

“Are you close with the other Sand Snakes?”

Morgan gives a smooth roll of his shoulders and finishes taking a sip of his drink. “Not as close as Arianne is with them, but closer than most are. The Snakes can be… abrasive. They don’t believe in toning themselves down so others feel more comfortable, and they don’t respect people who find themselves cowed by them. But if you can face them down and give as good as you get, it’s not hard to befriend them.”

She tilts her head to the side. “Do you believe in toning yourself down for other people?”

“I don’t have the forceful personality they have. But I do believe there is a time and a place for things. Just because I can be stubborn or insightful, it doesn’t mean I have to let people know I am those things in every interaction I have. There is also an advantage to being unreadable.”

“You don’t think it becomes lonely? Being mysterious?”

She feels like the look he sends her can see through her. “Do you find it lonely?”

She’s not all that surprised he turned her question around on her, the man had just told her he was insightful. “I didn’t before. But now, I am starting to wonder.” As though sensing her waning mood, Balerion walks into the room. He meows before rushing up into her lap and touching his nose against her chin.

As she coddles her needy cat, Morgan must take notice of the book she’s close to finishing. “How long have you been reading that thing?”

She looks over at _When Women Ruled_ and exhales a loud breath through her nose. “Weeks. Much too long honestly. It’s never taken me this long but Archmaester Abelon is… detailed, “ _to put it nicely._ “Do you like reading?”

“Sometimes, when the mood strikes me. I prefer stories orated instead of written. There is something special about watching people tell a story.”

She remembers going to the plays in Braavos and says, “There is nothing like it.”

“And I’m sure you’ve learned, by now, that my mother loves telling stories. I have a bit of nostalgia for sitting next to someone and listening to them spin a tale.”

“What kind of stories would she tell you?”

“Historical ones, mostly. She loves breathing life into figures that seem so flat and simple in songs and books. She also likes to tell stories about the people she knew. I feel like I could tell you everything about her brother, even though I never met him.”

“You mean Ser Arthur Dayne?”

He tips his head forward slightly. “I could tell you about the legend that is Ser Arthur, the Sword of the Morning. And I could tell you about the man, Arthur Dayne.”

“Is there a difference?”

Morgan nods his head. “There is a vast difference. The Sword of the Morning is a well-known legend, which means Arthur’s story becomes a myth. And myths slowly get altered so that the victories become grander and the failures become lessons. As time goes on, Ser Arthur stops being a person and becomes a symbol. But, by telling the stories of how he broke dozens of wooden swords when sparing, or how he would sit with his sister and sew, or eat food so spicy he would cry, we remember that he was a man. It keeps him from becoming a character in a tragedy like-.”

Morgan snaps his jaw shut and looks at her with wide eyes, but he didn’t catch himself soon enough. “Like who?”

He doesn’t look at her and his voice is barely above a whisper when he responds. “Like Princess Elia.”

“She has become a story, hasn’t she?” She had already suspected that Morgan may have put together who she was, but this confirms it for her. If she was who she claimed to be, there would be no need to hesitate where he had, to be concerned over telling her what has become Elia Martell’s legacy. But all these become concerns if he knew, or suspected, who she was. “A martyr who died terribly and too soon. Who has become defined by the worst things done to her and not what she lived for.”

Morgan looks at her with open concern. He opens his mouth, _to apologize_ her instincts tell her, but she waves for him to halt. “If you are willing, I’d love to hear you tell some stories.”

His looks over her face and she tries her best to convey that she is not upset. “About what?”

“About whatever you like. Maybe something happy. Or that will make me laugh.”

It takes a bit, but the tension bleeds out of their space as he speaks. He tells her about how Arthur and Ashara used to challenge each other to see who could eat the spiciest food, how he used to do the same with his cousin Edric, about the first tourney he went to, of the first time he met the Sand Snakes, of what it was like being Oberyn’s squire, of the day he was knighted by Oberyn, and a dozen other stories. They sit there and talk until the sun begins to go down.

They decide to part ways as the sky begins to go dark and attendants begin to dart through the halls lighting torches. Right before they leave she asks him if they can do this again and he promises her that they will, and that he still has to tell her the story of how Arthur injured his right wrist and decided to become an ambidextrous swordsman. She heads to the courtyard Brightdawn stays in feeling light and excited.

She arrives at the courtyard and finds Brightdawn curled beside the fountain. Her dragon’s scales glitter from the mist of water coating them. Brightdawn looks at her as she arrives, like he always does, and she wonders if he’s a light sleeper or if he just knew when she was coming.

He’s grown rather big, almost too big to be staying in this courtyard. They’ve stopped feeding him here after having the misfortune of learning that Brightdawn hunted when he left, and it was unfortunate because she didn’t want to learn that Brightdawn liked eating antelope by having a dead antelope dropped into the courtyard.

Brightdawn begins to seem more awake as she putters around. He looks at her with his large gold eyes, like he was beckoning her. Unable to resist the call, she approaches her dragon.

As she gets close, Brightdawn stretches his head out to touch her. He persistently presses his head against her arm and torso until she understands what he wants. She lifts her arm and he loops his neck around her side until he can press his head against her back. Even once she’s pressed against his flank, he keeps pushing at her back, if anything he grows more insistent with her pressed up next to him. Seeing nowhere else to go, she scrabbles onto Brightdawn’s back.

She intends to crawl over him, but once she’s on his back he gives one strong flap of his wings. He doesn’t stop when she squeaks in surprise and she’s left with no choice but to hold on. She wraps her arms around his neck and squeezes her eyes shut. Her hair whips around her face as Brightdawn continues to beat his wings and take them up.

Once Brightdawn is up in the air, she opens her eyes. There is a moment of disorientation, in the general way there is when you open your eyes and aren’t where you were before, before the feeling settles. She peaks around Brightdawn’s neck and feels a smile pull across her face. In front of them is the ocean, stretching out towards the horizon and glittering with reflected moonlight. She whips her head over her shoulder; she sees the broad expanse of desert and _maybe_ the glinting peak of the Tower of the Spear. Against her better instincts, she looks down at the castle; she can see the outline of the castle walls, made visible by the torches the guards carry, none of them look up. _And what reason did they have to do so?_

But the best view is when she grows bold enough to look up. Above her is the starry canopy of the sky, vibrant and enchanting. She is brave enough to sit up and stretch one of her hands towards the sky, feeling the wind swirl through her fingers. They’re high enough that she thinks she should be cold, but Brightdawn’s heat keeps her from feeling uncomfortable.

Brightdawn does a few circles in the air, before swooping back down towards the castle. She clings to his neck and squeezes her eyes close again, unable to look at the ground coming closer to them. It is, without question, shorter than all of Brightdawn’s other trips, but she isn’t sure if it is because of her weight or because he doesn’t want to overwhelm her. And it is definitely overwhelming as they land and she realizes that her ears are buzzing, her hands are shaking, her legs feel like jelly, and her stomach feels like it never left the ground.

She hears the rush of footsteps her and turns to see Jaime hurrying towards her. He steps right into Brightdawn’s space and she is grateful for his assistance as he helps her off the dragon’s back. She is sure he wants to scold her, but she feels so light and free that all she can do is laugh. What a picture she must make; hair disheveled, unable to stand on her own, eyes bright, and giggling with glee. Eventually, she manages to compose herself and look at Jaime.

“How reckless of you,” he says, but he is smiling.

She grins at him. “Maybe one day you can go up to.”


	35. Tyrion

He accepts this meeting as soon as he is informed of it. With his father having replaced him as Hand and _elevating_ him to Master of Coin, he has something, but not much, to do. But looking over ledgers and trying to figure out how Littlefinger mustered money through his complicated shell games is nowhere near enough to keep him from this meeting. After their last, failed, talks at peace with the Starks, it was hard to believe that they would be open to negotiations once again. _And if they knew of the forced marriage between myself and Sansa, I doubt they would have even tried._

When a gold cloak had arrived and had informed him that the Starks had sent a messenger that had asked for him, he had been even more shocked. When he had to follow that gold cloak away from the castle to ride to one of the barracks near the gates, he was intrigued. Pod follows close on his, figurative, heels. He allows his squire to follow, for all his nervousness and shyness Pod served him well and diligently.

Their arrival is immediately met by Ser Addam Marbrand; a tall, lithe knight with a handsome face and a reputation worthy of someone his brother once called his friend. The knight dismissed the gold cloak, leaving only him, Pod, and Ser Addam in the room. “Rather odd to keep negotiators so far from the castle,” he says it lightly, but it is an _interesting_ choice, to say the least.

Ser Addam does not seem phased by the statement. “They are rather insistent that there are to speak with you before anyone one else, maybe they intend to speak with only you. I’ve kept them here to ensure that you were the first one they spoke to.” He quickly picks up on what Ser Addam isn’t saying; if he had taken these messengers to the castle, his father would have them questioned immediately, regardless of their demands. _Ser Addam is wasted here, but it is to my benefit._

“And who are these messengers?”

“There is Ser Cleos Frey and Lancel Lannister,” Ser Addam sounds surprisingly neutral about the man who has spent his life pretending to be Jaime, “two men I am sure you are familiar with. They’ve also brought an ex-maester who treated Lancel after he got dangerously sick during the travel here,” here is the distaste he was expecting. He isn’t surprised by it, it took serious offences for a maester’s chain to be revoked. “But they aren’t the negotiators. The envoy is a woman, Lady Brienne of Tarth.”

“How long have they been here?”

“Not long. I was here when they arrived and sent for you as soon as she made it clear she would speak with no one else.”

“Have they said anything?”

“Ser Cleos insists that Lancel has been released as a sign of good faith. Lady Brienne has only repeated that she must speak with you, _privately_.” There is a pause and he turns to look at Ser Addam. He finds a frown on the knight’s face. “Lancel has not said anything since arriving. He does not look well.”

“Well then, let’s get this over with. Let’s go see this Lady Brienne.” Ser Addam tilts his head in a nod and leads them through the barracks. The place is tidy enough considering he’s heard Ser Addam complain about the number of gold cloaks he’s been forced to keep. He fights the urge to scratch the scab across his face. He was told the wound would heal clean, but no one had told him how long that would take. They arrive at a wide hallway and Ser Addam stops in front of a door. He turns slightly and says, “Pod, stay here with Ser Addam.”

Ser Addam raises a thin, red eyebrow. “You are going in alone?”

“Have you fed her? Given her bread and salt?” He waits until Ser Addam responds with a slow nod. “Then I have nothing to fear. Northerners take their guest rights seriously.” Ser Addam stares him down before giving a curt nod and opening the door.

He walks inside into, what seems to be, private quarters and hears the door close behind him. It’s a sparse room with only a bed, a table, and a set of chairs. There is only one person in this room; a towering individual in blue armor with straw-like, blond hair and wide shoulders. Trusting that Ser Addam did not take him to the wrong room and knowing that neither Lancel nor Cleos look like this, the person he assumes to be Lady Brienne steps away from the window of the room and looks in his direction.

He smiles and he can feel the cut on his face pull, but Lady Brienne’s blue eyes don’t flinch at the ghastly sight he must make. Lady Brienne does not have a pretty face; her jaw is sturdy and square, her nose is crooked, and her lips lack shape. Still, he respects her purposeful gaze and the way her eyes don’t leave his face, since his injury few people have it in them to look at his face. “You must be Lady Brienne.”

“Lord Tyrion,” she acknowledges. He waits to see if she will say anything else, but she doesn’t follow the acknowledgement with anything else. _Not much of a talker this one._

“I was told you would only speak with me. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

There is a breath, before she tells him, “We were advised that you would be the best person to speak to.” _Advised?_ He watches as the lady reaches into her armor and produces a leather sleeve. From it she withdraws a letter and he’s forced to wonder why the Starks would send this woman when it didn’t appear like she was here to _speak_ with him, only deliver something a raven could have delivered. She stretches her arm towards him and he can see the grey wax of the Starks pressed onto its center.

He brings the letter up to his face and notices that the stamp on the letter is not a direwolf head. He takes a better look at the seal and furrows his brow when he realizes it is a Lannister lion, an _old_ Lannister lion. Now, he was sure that an old stamping seal would not mean nothing, to any other house, but in House Lannister it meant a lot. After Jaime had disappeared, his father has confiscated every Lannister stamper so that they could be remade. In his determination to find Jaime, Lord Tywin had slightly altered the house seal, in the hopes that, if Jaime ever wrote a letter, it would be immediately obvious who wrote it. He doubts any other house even noticed the difference, but right now that difference is clear to him as he runs his thumb over the empty space a lion’s tail had been moved to cover. He couldn’t even rationalize that the difference came from a hastily pressed stamp, because it was also obvious that a lot of care had been taken in cleanly pressing this stamp. _My father would want to know about this immediately._

He breaks the seal with a definitive snap, that sounds loud in the quietness of this room. He spends a moment blindly staring at the words on the paper, not reading just looking. Jaime hadn’t been one to write letters; in his memory, Jaime hadn’t cared much for anything written. He was positive he could scour Casterly Rock and not find a single item written by his brother. The handwriting on this letter is _passable_ , not elegant and beautiful but also not scraggly and incomprehensible. _Would any of us be able to recognize Jaime on handwriting alone?_

After deciding that it would be unreasonable to expect anyone to recognize someone on handwriting alone, he stops his staling. He takes a deep breath before going through the letter. After getting halfway down the letter and realizing he has absorbed nothing of it, he goes back to the start of the letter and reads in earnest.

_Tyrion,_

_I understand if you don’t believe this is me. In fact, I recognize that you have every reason to believe that this is not me, but I, selfishly, have a favor to ask of you. Catelyn Stark recognized me. She went as far as to capture me, much like she captured you, but she could not hold me. I should be angry at his woman’s audacity, but instead I find myself respecting this woman’s dedication to her children. She held me hostage in the hopes that she could ransom me for her daughters._

_I’ve told her she shouldn’t expect too much, but I ask that you do what you can to get her daughters back to her. I’ve heard that father promised a lot to anyone who could tell him where I disappeared to, and Lady Stark would happily give me up, in exchange for her daughters. I can’t come back yet, there are still things I have to do, but I ask that you help this woman in any way you can._

_I ask that you do me this favor in the name of any love you have for me. Or, if it has been too long, I ask that you do this in the memory of the love I had for you._

_The humble brother of a dragonlord._

Once he finishes reading the letter, he goes back and reads through it again. As he finishes reading through it a second time, he feels laughter build in his chest; whether that laughter is joyful or hysterical he cannot tell. How very cheeky of his brother to write of love and then make reference to some of the happiest memories he has with him.

He remembers the time when his brother was one of the few who humored his love for dragons. Jaime had attentively listened as he had rambled on all he knew about dragons, and how Jaime had added to the conversation when his love for dragons intersected with Jaime’s interest in knights. He remembers when, _almost twenty years ago,_ Jaime would sit him on his shoulders and allow him to pretend he was riding a dragon. Jaime had even insisted that a proper dragonlord named their dragon and allowed him to call him the _Golden Roar,_ not a very creative name but he thinks he can be forgiven considering he was a child.

He folds the letter closed and looks back at Lady Brienne. She watches him with large eyes and he wonders if the woman is aware of how expressive her face is. He clears his throat and asks, “Do you know who wrote this?”

“I do. I was there when he wrote it.”

He looks over the woman’s armor and thinks about what Jaime wrote. _Lady Stark captured him, no doubt with this woman’s help. Jaime was once one of the most prospective knights in Westeros; has my brother not lived up to people’s expectations of him, or is this woman more of a threat than she seems?_ “And what do you think this piece of paper will do?”

Lady Brienne’s nostrils flare and her brow furrows. “He was confident that if anyone could help Lady Catelyn it would be you. Not your father, not the queen, _you.”_ With how unrestrained all of Lady Brienne’s reactions have been, he doubts she is saying this in an attempt to be cunning. Which means that she is telling him what _Jaime_ told her. _Ser Addam seemed sure that she may only want to talk to him, meaning Jaime only reached out to me._ _That my brother picked me over our father and his twin._

He looks back down at the letter in his hand, rubbing the paper between his index finger and thumb. “Lady Brienne, it is obvious you respect knights, how seriously do you take your oaths?”

The woman puffs out her chest. “I take my oaths very seriously.”

Under different circumstances he might have laughed at this kind of behavior, but right now he finds that he believes her. “I may be able to help you, but I need you to swear that you will not divulge what I am about to tell you to anyone else.”

She looks him over, likely trying to decide if she can trust him to help her and Lady Catelyn. He doesn’t begrudge her hesitation, she has every reason to be wary, especially considering he cannot guarantee them either daughter. Eventually, she nods, “I swear I will not reveal whatever it is you tell me.”

He takes a deep breath. “I cannot provide either girl.” He holds his hand up in the hopes that she will let him finish. She doesn’t look happy, and he’s sure the hard clench of her teeth is painful, but she doesn’t say anything. “Lady Sansa is no longer Sansa Stark, but rather Sansa Lannister,” his marriage to the Stark girl is too fresh for him to really consider her his wife, among other things, “and no one in King’s Landing has seen Lady Arya since her father’s execution.” He lets the words sit between them.

Lady Brienne narrows her eyes and asks, “How is that of help?”

“Well, it just so happens that everyone we have sent to find the younger Stark girl has been unsuccessful and I may be interested in employing someone new to try and find her. If you accept you’d be given fresh supplies, some information, and orders that would allow you to pass through Lannister held territories freely.”

“Why would I bring her back to you?”

“I believe I only said I wanted her _found.”_ He sees her eyes widen once she understands what he is implying, and then narrow in suspicion. Once again, her eyes rove over his face to see if she can read his intentions and he tries to remain as placid as possible. “It wouldn’t take me long to prepare the things you need and, honestly, the sooner you leave the better, because, now that I’ve had some time to think, I believe a certain golden rose knight has some serious grievances with you.”

Lady Brienne agrees to the assignment with one, terse, nod of her head. With that he tucks his brother’s letter into his clothes and turns to leave the room. He reaches the door, thinking about what he needs to prepare, when he pauses there. He turns back to look at Lady Brienne over his shoulder. “Before I leave this room and we both _forget_ about what we talked about, you said you saw him?”

“I did.”

He hesitates for a second. “How did he look?”

Lady Brienne thinks a moment then says, “He looked well.” A pause. “I spoke to him, before I knew who he was, and his was… nicer that his reputation makes him out to be.” He nods his head and steps out of the room.

Only Pod is standing in the hallway when he steps out. It takes a moment, but Pod eventually tells him that Ser Addam had to attend to something urgent and left. As his squire stutters out an explanation, he thinks about what Pod had done for him. The boy had killed a Kingsguard to save his life, _maybe it would be for the best to send the boy out of the city. I’ve lost most of my power and authority, if something happens I cannot protect him._

Already doing the math to prepare supplies for a second traveler, he begins to walk towards another part of the barracks. As he walks he brings his hand up to brush against the front of his doublet. _Jaime is here in Westeros. And he chose to reach out to me. Not father. Not Cersei. Me. He said he had things to do, but what could he be doing that it has taken more than sixteen years?_

_But did it really matter, because he knew that his brother was alive. He should be running this letter straight to his father, who had been certain that Jaime was alive, even as time continued to pass. He should be taking this good news to the queen and his uncle Kevan and every Lannister he crossed paths with. But, what if I don't?_


	36. Rhaenys

“I don’t think I’ve gotten any better at this game since the first time we played it.”

“That is not true, you have substantially improved.” Her uncle leans forward in his chair and captures her king; in her mind, contradicting his point. “But cyvasse is not a game for everyone.”

With her having officially lost, she redistributes the pieces in preparation for another game. It is a traditional board with black and white pieces and she hands the white pieces to her uncle while taking the black pieces for herself. After diving up the pieces she sets down the screen and thinks of her strategy for the next game. If she was more competitive she would probably be infuriated by how quickly her uncle sets his own pieces down. After a moment, she finishes setting down her pieces and lifts the screen off the board.

They spend a minute overlooking each other’s layouts, before her uncle makes the first move. “You tend to use your dragon rather tentatively.”

She isn’t sure if she was intended to interpret this statement through its double meaning, but she decides to interpret it in the context of the game. “It is the most powerful piece in the game but also the most vulnerable. I would much rather sacrifice it in a useful moment later than use it recklessly early and gain nothing.”

“A sensible strategy. Most inexperienced players focus on strength instead of purpose. The strength of a piece alone does not matter as much as its use in getting you closer to capturing the king.”

“Making every piece but the king expendable,” she says absentmindedly. She furrows her brow as she takes stock of the board. She can already tell that this was a losing game. Her best bet was to shore up her defenses and make her uncle work for his victory.

“Does it?” She looks up from the board and finds Doran looking at her intently. “Does that mean that every piece is expendable?”

“It does, in an abstract sense. The game can be won if you lose every other piece, but you _need_ the king to win. That’s not to say you can win the game if you _only_ have your king, but the game isn’t unwinnable if you lose your dragon, or all your elephants, or any other piece except the king.”

Doran nods his head and returns his gaze to the board. She ignores the board and continues to look at her uncle. Usually Doran is more subtle in his investigations, having mastered appearing indifferent in his question when he is actually deeply invested in the responses. But this was not that. She thinks about what she said, _to be fair, blasé statements about anything’s expendability can be pretty concerning._

She manages to put on a good fight, taking out half her uncle’s board, but she still loses the match. She slouches down in her chair and puffs out a sigh. Her uncle gives out a soft laugh and begins to put away the pieces. “You may not believe this, but you’ve done very well. Few people manage to take so many of my pieces, and even fewer manage to win against me.”

“Some say that there is no better way to learn something than from an expert.”

“You have told me that you have spent time in Volantis. I find it hard to believe that you never played the game there.”

“Our stay in Volantis was temporary. I didn’t go far from the inn we were staying in and the people who passed through tended to play with people they knew, not the random little girl skulking through the common rooms.” She thinks back to her eleven years old self and can’t help but smile. She had not like Volantis, but she had liked slipping through the shadows of the common area listening to people talk. The staff of the inn had liked her and called her a curious little girl; Jaime had just called her nosy. “And, when I would watch people play, I was much more interested in their gossip than the game.”

“And what kind of gossip does one speak of over games of cyvasse?”

“Oh, all sorts. I quickly learned that, for a lot of people, cyvasse was mostly an excuse so that they could meet people they wanted to speak with. I overheard conversations between merchants and how things were selling; between citizens and how they felt about the Triarchs; mercenaries would sometimes talk about their contracts; there was even an informant who liked to meet clients over games of cyvasse.” She tips here head back as she tries to remember all the things she heard. “Actually, I once overheard a mercenary general complaining to someone he worked with about an Old Blood thinking he was good at battle strategy because he was good at cyvasse. I remember him saying Old Bloods think of a cyvasse board as a battle map, while generals know that this is only a game.”

Doran raises one of his thick eyebrows. “Do you agree with that sentiment?”

“I do,” she says without hesitation.

“And why is that?”

She thinks a moment, taping her fingers against the arm of her chair. “I would say that it is because there is too much structure and control in a game of cyvasse. When I look over the board I know exactly what my pieces will do, I know they will do exactly what I want them to do, I know where all your pieces are, and, even though I don’t know _exactly_ what you will do, I do know the limitations of what you can and cannot do. The same cannot be said in battle or war. I may have an idea of what my army could do but I do not know what they will do; there is no guarantee they will do exactly as I order them to do, messages get lost, an impossible order may be given, reasonable orders may be ignored, or complex orders can be misinterpreted; even with the best informants, there is still uncertainty in what my enemy’s army is doing; and, in the same way I cannot know if my orders are being followed, my enemy’s orders may not be followed, adding more chaos to an already chaotic situation.”

She pauses for a breath when something else occurs to her. “And that’s not even considering the politics of war. In cyvasse, you don’t have to manage loyalties, or egos, or ambition, or betrayal. There is no need to manage morale and fatigue. Cyvasse lacks the human element that can make supposedly untouchable factions lose and give supposedly lost causes the ability to win.”

“That is very astute of you. Cyvasse is a game of strategy, but it does not come close to replicating the actuality of combat. How did you come across this wisdom?”

She looks over her shoulder at Jaime, standing unobtrusively behind her. “I grew up on stories of knights; not just the pretty stories that become fairy tales, but also the complex stories about war, conflicting loyalties, and tested chivalry.

“But I don’t think I would call what I said wisdom. When I lived in Braavos, the mother of one of my friends worked with important people and she used to warn us not to confuse eloquence for sense. Just because a man could make his point well, it didn’t mean his point was well thought out.”

Doran smiles at her. “A smart woman.”

Anything else her uncle might have said is interrupted by knocking on the chamber door. Doran calls the person in and Maester Caleotte slips through the doorway. Recognizing that the maester was here to look over her uncle, she excuses herself with a word, presses a kiss to Doran’s cheek, and leaves the room.

She walks down a few hallways before forcing Jaime to walk alongside her. She even goes as far as to link her arm in his to keep him there. “Guards are supposed to walk behind their wards,” he sighs, voice slightly muffled by the head cover he wears. Even though he sounds longsuffering, he does not try to separate himself from her.

“And who decided that?”

“It’s the best place to be to notice and handle threats.”

“We’ve been here for months, have you noticed any threats that you haven’t informed me about?”

“Even when there aren’t active threats, it is always best to maintain good habits.”

She hums and lets the subject drop. She’s gotten what she wanted and if it was a real issue Jaime wouldn’t have acted so exasperated.

Having not made plans with anyone today, she decides to gather her mother’s letters and read in the courtyard with Brightdawn. She’s already begun to read some of those letters. She decided to start with the older ones, to get to see who her mother was before she was married. She doesn’t want to read her mother’s war letters yet, because she knows that reading those letters will be difficult.

She remembers her mother being composed and collected before she was sent off with Jaime, but now she knows enough to _know_ that her mother was afraid. They had been alone and aware that the walls were crumbling around them. A part of her was aware that her mother had died afraid, but she didn’t want to confront the truth of that yet.

She spends the afternoon reading about her mother’s youth. She learns about all the trivial enjoyments Elia found in life from her letters to Doran. That her mother enjoyed food so spicy it made other people cry, to listen to music when she embroidered, warm baths, and to dance. She learns of Elia’s opinions on Dornish lords and even her first impression of Ashara. She learns of her mother’s trip to Casterly Rock and all the stops they made along the way, from a letter to Ashara. In those letters, she also learns that Elia wished Tyrion Lannister the best, because she believed that no child should be hated by their family.

She even finds a letter about her mother’s first impression of her father. She learns that her mother first met Rhaegar at a feast held in Sunspear during one of his trips to Dorne. She learns that the two of them had been seated next to each other and that her mother had found Rhaegar intelligent and delightful. But that Elia hadn’t found Rhaegar truly charming until the prince had asked her to dance with him. She learns that the two of them danced long into the night, whispering about things they found amusing in the hope of getting the other to laugh. And that, after they had stopped dancing, Rhaegar had offered to play his harp for her tomorrow in the afternoon.

She stops reading after finishing that letter. By now, the sky has grown dark and her eyes feel strained and watery. She rubs the heels of her hands against her eyes and stands from her chair. She turns and finds Jaime sitting on the edge of the fountain, distractedly looking at the sky. Beside him, she sees Balerion lean over the water before batting the water and splashing Jaime. Jaime let’s out a yelp and she can’t help laughing at the scene.

She sits next to him and watches Brightdawn uncurl and disappear into the night sky. Tonight is a new moon, so it is even harder to see him in the sky. She ends up falling asleep pressed against Jaime’s side and dreams of a couple trying to stifle giggles as they dance.

She wakes up in the center of the nest she has made in the courtyard. It speaks to how much she trusts Jaime, that she didn’t even wake up when he moved her. She stands up to stretch and sees Jaime asleep with Balerion on his chest. She sweeps her gaze across the courtyard and it takes her a moment to notice that something is wrong.

She doesn’t see Brightdawn in the courtyard and it doesn’t strike her as odd until she realizes she can see well in the courtyard. She turns her eyes up towards the sky and finds it painted in the pinks, oranges, and purples of dawn. She can feel her heart beat in her throat as she realizes that Brightdawn _didn’t come back_. She bites her lip and forces herself to calm down, _tonight he will come back._

But she and Jaime spend the night awake and staring at the sky, and he doesn’t appear. They do the same the next night, and the next, and the next, _and the next, and the next_. But he doesn’t come back.


	37. Jon

It is Satin who pulls him away from Ygritte’s body. Even though he had seen the last breath leave her body, _even though he knew she was gone_ , he couldn’t bring himself to leave her body. Satin gives him a moment to mourn, standing vigil over his shoulder, before Donal roars for anyone who is alive to present themselves. Satin silently touches him on the shoulder and helps him stand. He appreciates Satin’s silence, because he doesn’t know what he would have said if questioned.

If he leans on Satin more than he had before, as they make their way towards Donal, the boy does not mention it. His leg is practically numb now as they pick their way through the courtyard and it slows them down. He looks over every face they edge their way around, a part of him commits every face, and names for those he knows, to his memory. Another part of him desperately hopes to not see the people he knows. _I’ve already lost Father and Bran and Rickon and maybe Sam. I don’t want to lose anyone else._

They are one of the last to stumble their way towards the black circle of Sworn Brothers. He feels an almost dizzying sense of relief when he sees Pyp and Grenn standing side by side. Pyp’s face is pale and he leans heavily against Grenn, but Grenn stands stoic and firm. A bit away from them stands Dolorous Edd, as dour as usual. _Both Grenn and Edd were at Craster’s Keep, they have already seen men die._

Donal looks them over once they have gathered, giving them a moment to do the same. They haven’t lost many of their own, but with their numbers having already been so small the holes in their ranks are glaringly noticeable. After giving them time to regather themselves, Donal begins to give out orders. The battle was over, but their duties were not.

His brothers and the braver people of Mole’s Town swarm through the courtyard; taking the wounded to Maester Aemon, gathering the bodies to be burned, and moving some of the debris from necessary areas. Donal takes one look at him and tells Satin to take him to the maester. It’s now as the battle high begins to wear off that he can feel the heat burning through his face. He can feel Satin nod beside him and, with that, Donal turns away from them.

But he doesn’t let Satin take him back just yet, there was something he needed to do. They find their way back to Ygritte’s body and he gets to work. Satin doesn’t help him here; the boy seems to understand that this is something he needs to do alone. It’s awkward and slow but he needs to do this, he needs to be the one to burn her body. _It’s the last thing I have to give her. The only thing I can give her that she would have wanted._

With Satin’s help, he limps his way to the infirmary. With Clydas and Mole’s Town’s midwife occupied, Maester Aemon attends to him himself. The maester feels his leg and his face before giving him dreamwine and sending him to rest. He makes his way back to his quarters by himself and, breaking from his usual habits, falls asleep almost immediately.

In his dreams, he finds himself back in the courtyard; except he is uninjured and walking through the mess of bodies on his own. He isn’t sure if it is morbid curiosity or a need to see, but he checks the faces of everyone he walks past. He rolls over bodies and sees his father’s face, discolored and surprised; he sees the face of Qhorin Halfhand, pale and resolute; the face of Jeor Mormont, in pain and despairing; the face of Craster, angry and with his throat cut open; the face of Jarl the wildling, with his blank eyes staring blindly towards the sky; the face of who he thinks to be Styr, the face is badly burned but earless; and the faces of a number of his Sworn Brothers.

He also sees the faces of people he doesn’t recognize. He sees the face of a man in green armor, with a face that vaguely resembles the one of King Robert, whose throat has been pierced open. He sees a thin man with grey hair and a driftwood crown whose face seems to be bloated with water. He sees an imposing man with long, dark, braided hair and a blank face. He sees a body whose head and shoulders are covered in gold, with a face contorted in agony.

The bodies begin to thin out the further he walks. One of the last bodies he notices is a man in black armor. The armor looks well made, but the chest piece has collapsed in on itself. The man in the armor has long pale blonde, almost silver, hair and his face seems sad. The man lays alone on a hill of bloodied snow and he cannot take his eyes off the figure until he has long walked past it.

He continues to walk towards a red spot on the horizon. After what feels like an eternity, he finally reaches the red spot he felt compelled to walk towards. His knees collapse under him as he reaches Ygritte’s body.

The scene is almost exactly like the one he saw earlier. Ygritte lays sprawled on her back with her head tilted towards the sky. Frost has settled over her face like a brilliant diamond mask. But there is no black arrow between her breasts; instead it looks like her chest has been pulled open. He can see the bloody red of her heart and watches the slowing beat of the muscle.

He feels so cold, kneeling in the snow holding a slowly cooling hand. He wants to say something, but his throat feels choked and closed. The ground around them bleeds red and for a long while the only sound between them is Ygritte’s wet, rasping breaths. He knows that this is a dream because his eyes have remained unblinking, forcing him to stare at the macabre display in front of him, but his presses his eyelids closed as he hears a whispered, “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

He keeps his eyes pressed shut as he feels a warmth come over him. It begins in the fingers he has clasped in his hand, but spreads to the air around him. He opens his eyes and he is no longer kneeling in the snow holding a dying Ygritte’s hand. Instead he is kneeling in sand, holding the hand of a woman who could be Ygritte’s opposite in every way.

This woman is tall, with sun-touched skin, and elegant features. Her long, black hair is scattered around her head in soft, dark waves and her head is tilted up towards the sky. Her eyes are dark and, in their reflection, he can the night’s stars. But the biggest difference between this woman and Ygritte is that this woman is alive. He can see the smooth rise and fall of this woman’s chest and, while her face is sad, she does not seem to be in distress.

He opens his mouth but his throat remains choked. No matter how much he’d like to, he cannot say anything. So instead he watches this woman. It doesn’t take him long to realize that, even though he is holding one of her hands, she does not seem to notice him. As he turns his eyes back towards her face, to try and remember her features, he feels his eyes blink.

And as he opens his eyes he sees Pyp leaning over him. His friend bullies him into sitting up and getting him dressed. Pyp keeps up a constant stream of conversation, but he doesn’t hear a word of it. His leg hurts, his eye throbs, his fingers feel tense, he feels too hot, and grief has settled over his shoulders. He lets his friend bully him into starting his day, even though he wants nothing more than to keep lying in bed.

He wonders if it means anything that his siblings were not among the bodies he saw in his dream. He was told that Bran and Rickon were dead, killed by a man who they trusted, but he had seen so many people he _knew_ were dead and yet he hadn’t seen them. He wonders who that woman is, why he saw her, _and why she was so sad_. He wonders if maybe he is reading too much into his dreams. This dream was so different from seeing the free folk digging up the Frostfangs and maybe that meant that this dream meant nothing. Maybe this dream was just his fever twisting his unconscious. _But that dream had meant something so why shouldn’t this one?_

He mulls that over as he goes through his day. He thinks of it as he breaks his fast. He thinks of it as he helps clean up the courtyard. He thinks of it as they burn the corpses they hadn’t had the chance to get to last night. He thinks of it as Donal dismisses him from working. He thinks of it as Maester Aemon looks him over. He thinks of it he heads back to his quarters for the end of the day. He thinks of it as he tries to avoid sleeping. He thinks of it as he tries to avoid falling back into his dreams.

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until he notices that he is no longer staring at the roof of his room. Instead he appears to be in some grand hall that’s been cleaned up and decorated for some event. He cannot hear anything, he cannot smell anything, and he cannot taste anything. All he can do is feel and see the things happening around him.

Realizing that this is a dream leaves him disorientated, objects are blurred and while he can see people he cannot make out their faces. But everything seems to sharpen when he feels a piercing pain in his shoulder. He has long enough to recognize that the pain is familiar, _like when he was shot by the arrow_ , yet different, _maybe a quarrel shot from a crossbow,_ before there is another piercing pain in his other shoulder blade. He staggers forward onto the floor as another quarrel enters his body. Once he’s on the floor, hands reach out and drag him behind an overturned table.

There are people grabbing at his body; likely trying to assess his injuries, but all they do is jostle his wounds. Still, he does not find himself afraid of them. Even though their faces blur in his wet vision, he recognizes enough to know they are northern lords. It’s their blazons that hint at who they are; he sees an eagle on purple, a fist on red, a bear on green, keys on purple, another bear on red, and a white sun on black.

He struggles to stand. His leg screams at him and if he thought he could escape that pain in his dreams he was wrong. Someone hooks his arm over their shoulders and lifts him the rest of the way up.

He blinks his eyes clear and scans the room. There is combat, _murder,_ every way he looks and, though he cannot hear the combat, his own battle was recent enough for him to remember the sound.

His eyes stop on Lady Catelyn, disheveled and holding a knife to a man’s throat. She’s saying something, yelling to be overheard over the noise, but despair has settled over her features. The person he is clinging to is trying to take him away but he cannot leave without his mother.

_And this is the first moment that he doubts it is just a dream. Because he had never thought of Lady Catelyn as his mother. Not only had it felt disrespectful to his true mother, but Lady Catelyn had never treated him well enough for him to even consider it._ His questioning disconnects him from the dream. That disconnect makes it so that the next part of the dream overlays with nightmares he has had.

Another quarrel flies through the air and strikes him in the chest. He slumps, boneless and numb, in the grasp of whoever is holding him, but his vision does not follow the eyes on this body. Instead his vision stays fixed on Lady Catelyn, who screams in grief and saws through the throat of the man she was holding. He can feel his body being dragged away, but his eyes remain focused on Lady Catelyn. She drops the man’s body and begins to claw at her face, hysterical and wild with grief. Someone steps up behind her and, with one clean motion of their arm, opens her throat.

And as bright red blood sprays from her throat, this scene blurs into one he knows to well. In one blink, he sees Lady Catelyn, heartbroken and devastated. In the next, he sees Qhorin Halfhand, resigned and resolute as he cut his throat open. The two images flash over each other in a way that makes him nauseous and disorientated. As he is pulled out of the room, he feels blame settle into his chest. A part of him feels just as responsible for Lady Catelyn’s death as he does for Qhorin’s death.

He feels like a rat in a fire as he’s dragged through the halls of this castle. He flinches at sounds coming down halls and feels fear burn through him. Even when he manages to find his legs again, he doesn’t feel like he is moving fast enough. _He may already be dead, but he is certainly dead if he doesn’t get out of here._

The halls blur together until he finds himself outside, alone. He comes back to his body gasping on the ground. He can taste blood in his mouth and an unholy burn throughout his whole body. He is in so much pain. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get back up. Yet he forces himself to crawl forward.

As he drags himself across the ground, he hears something approaching. He stops moving, but can’t find it in himself to look. He is just so tired, too tired to care if the thing coming for him was friend or foe. He feels something wet run across his face.

And he wakes up, alone in his room. His body aches in phantom pain and his head burns except for the two tracks of wetness streaked across his cheeks. He rocks over onto his side and clutches at his body, desperate for any kind of comfort he can find.

“It was just a dream. They mean nothing. My family is fine.” His stuttered words sound loud in this room.

“It was just a dream. They mean nothing. My family is fine.” The second time he says it, the words are no more steady. His body shakes as he tries to fight the feeling coming over him.

“It was just a dream. They mean nothing. My family is fine.” He tries to use this mantra to combat the grief weighting on his soul. But it is a losing fight.

“It was just a dream. They mean nothing. My family is fine.” And he prays to every god he knows to make the statement true. He prays to the old gods, the new gods, the Rhoynar Mother Vorian once mentioned to him, and any god who might be listening to make it true.


	38. Arthur

Traveling through the north during fall was already a slow endeavor. Traveling through the north during fall, almost winter, on foot with a child, a woman, and a direwolf, while trying to avoid detection, was infinitely slower. Still, he was sure they were making good time considering the eclectic-ness of their group, all of them did their best not to slow their travel down. He made use of every trick his maester had taught him on wilderness survival, Osha’s lifetime of experience was invaluable, Shaggydog tended to alternate between scouting ahead and hunting, and Rickon rarely complained about all the walking they did, though he and Osha alternated carrying the boy on longer days.

With the knowledge that Bran was heading southwest, towards Greywater, the knowledge that the Stark boys needed to be separated, and Osha’s insistence that they not head further north if they didn’t need to, they had decided that it would be best to head southeast, towards White Harbor. He knew House Manderly to be loyal to House Stark and, at best, they could go to them for help, or, maybe, they could try to find passage on a ship and head south, or, at worst, they could purchase supplies for a more extended stay in the wild. If they could go south, how far south was yet to be determined: they could head to Riverrun and reunite with Robb or they could head all the way down to Dorne, _to home._ But they had tabled all discussion on what they would do in White Harbor until they reached White Harbor. Osha had firmly refused to decide what they should do until they knew what they _could_ do.

He had pushed a bit for some sort of plan, they had agreed that he would enter White Harbor alone so that Rickon couldn’t be recognized, but he didn’t think arguing with Osha was worth more than that. He and Osha rarely disagreed on things, but the few times they had argued about something for more than a minute, it had made Rickon upset. This was already hard enough on the boy and neither of them wanted to add to the strain.

They did everything they could to keep Rickon’s spirits up. They include him when doing basic survival tasks, they teach him about hunting, they have him help make traps, they instruct him on how to handle their respective weapons, they teach him what’s worth foraging, and they include him on anything else they think will help pass the time. He tells Rickon every story he knows, he lectures him on what he has learned about northern politics, and does his best to remember the precautionary lessons his maester gave him in case he became a lord. Osha tells Rickon about the old gods, about the free folk beyond the Wall, and, on rare occasions, she even tells some free folk folktales.

Originally, Osha’s _straightforwardness_ with Rickon bothered him, but the lack of pity seemed to help Rickon adjust. Rickon seemed to want to think of this as normal, as some great quest he had to go on like the heroes of old, and any pity or coddling that hinted otherwise was met with swift resistance. And if that helped Rickon adjust to this new reality, they decided not to contradict him. They didn’t encourage him, but they didn’t contradict him either.

And he was very intrigued in the story Rickon was weaving, because in some respects Rickon was very forthcoming about the details and in others he was incredibly secretive. The boy was very open about their roles; Shaggydog was ‘obviously’ Rickon’s faithful companion who would see him through the journey and he and Osha were Rickon’s mentors. But Rickon hadn’t labeled himself a hero, like he expected most six, _maybe seven, it’s hard to keep track of the days like this,_ year old boys do. Rickon had avoided labeling himself anything. Once, he could have sworn he heard Rickon say that he would reunite his family, but, when he asked, Rickon had insisted that it would be Arya who did that.

And, aside from that one slip up, Rickon gave no more details about what was going to happen in this story. Not only did Rickon refuse to tell them what his role was, he refused to tell them what his journey would consist of. And, though he had told them that Arya would reunite the Starks, there were no details about how she would do it. Rickon also made no mention about what the rest of the Starks would be doing until then.

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t care about the details of a child’s fantasy. When they were young, Ashara had been fond of imagining up stories and, even when those stories had started based on something real, most of the details in those stories had been made up by his sister. But this wasn’t normal circumstances. Osha was sure that Rickon was a warg and that he might even have green dreams, but they had no way of knowing until Rickon was old enough to better explain what he was dreaming. So, this meant that Rickon’s story might not just be a story, but premonitions of a future they couldn’t avoid. _And if he resented being lead around by the whims of magic dreams again, no one else needed to know._

The idea that magic refuses to leave his life plagues him. He wants nothing to do with magic. Technically, he _has_ nothing to do with magic. He isn’t the one dreaming weird dreams. He isn’t the one trying to piece together half remembered visions into understandable information. He’s just the fool chasing after the people with the visions. He’s just the man trying to make something out of nothing because that’s what he’s been ordered to do.

But those thoughts are unfair; to Rickon _and_ Rhaegar. They don’t know if Rickon is actually experiencing premonitions or if the story he’s weaving is just wish fulfilment. And, even if Rickon was seeing the future, that wasn’t why he was with Rickon. He is with Rickon because he is a _boy_ who needs protection, and he is in a position to offer that protection. He felt a sense of obligation to save _someone. Especially after I have failed so many others._

And he hadn’t followed Rhaegar because of magic dreams. He had followed Rhaegar because the man had been his prince, _and hi_ s _friend._ And he, _well they; Hightower and Whent had also been involved,_ had tried to make something out of nothing because they saw that their king would lead them into ruin and believed that Rhaegar could keep them from that. They had indulged Rhaegar’s talks of magic and the things he thought he needed to do, so that Rhaegar would focus on the Aerys situation. They had thought that _maybe_ if they could settle Rhaegar’s anxieties about the ‘cold death coming for Westeros’ he would be able to focus on deposing his father.

“You should stop thinking about it.”

He turns to look at Osha. They are huddled together to ward away the cold, but the two of them are separated by Shaggydog and Rickon. Rickon is almost unnoticeable through all of Shaggydog’s hair, the direwolf had grown so much bigger during their travels. “Stop thinking about what?”

“Magic.” Osha grins, something sharp and shadowed in the dim firelight. “It’s the only thing I’ve seen make you angry.”

He grunts and turns to look at the fire.

“Even when the boy is reckless and wild, you are disappointed and _chiding_ ,” Osha loved using his own words against him, “never angry.”

“There is no point getting angry with him if he doesn’t understand what he did wrong. And I’ve never met an angry person who could make their point well.” His brother had been able to get his point across when he was angry, but that didn’t mean he ever made _good_ points.

She hums and he can feel her looking at his face. “Tomorrow, you travel alone to White Harbor. No matter what you learn, remember to bring back supplies.”

“I remember.” He’d tried to clean up in preparation for this trip, but there wasn’t much he could do to not look like a mountain man.

“If we are not _here,_ we will be in the area.”

“I’ll look for Shaggydog. He’s hard to miss.” Osha nods and says nothing else.

The only sound between them is the crackle of the fire in front of them. Animals never really rest in the winter like maesters theorized they once had, but the snow muffles any noise that could be happening. It makes falling asleep both easy and unnerving, but he sleeps easy that night.

In the morning, he says his goodbyes to Rickon, Osha, and Shaggydog, before starting to trudge his way through the snow. He doesn’t head directly towards White Harbor. Instead he heads slightly southwest to intersect with a minor road that heads into the city, in the hopes that he may be able to run into someone on a cart. And he is fortunate enough that exactly that happens. A farmer, going into the city to sell some grain, is kind enough to let him sit on the back of his cart.

The man is so chatty he barely has to say anything. The man bemoans the fate of the Stark boys, claims that Theon got what he deserved, tells him he doesn’t trust the Bolton boy, complains that the season was hard on growing, and informs in that, the last time he went to White Harbor, he heard that Balon Greyjoy was dead. The man doesn’t stop talking until they reach White Harbor’s gate and he gets off to run his errands.

He’s been to White Harbor a few times in his time in the North and, even though this was one of the smallest of the big cities, it does have the city quality of always being bustling. There are woman walking around with their shopping, children racing around, men with nothing better to do swaggering through the street, carts forcing themselves through the street, the loud voices of vendors proclaiming their wares, and dogs sneaking away with whatever they could take. He’s tall enough that he doesn’t have to shoulder his way through the crowd, but he does let the flow of the crowd take him where he wants to go. Not fighting his way through people makes it easier to listen to what people are talking about.

He hears all sorts to things that are of no interest to him; like the rising price of foreign goods, that the ship makers of the city are being well paid, complaints about the food share the city was taking, but he does hear some things of interest. He hears that there are mixed, but mostly negative, opinions about Ramsey Bolton with people accepting that he dealt with Theon, but not caring for anything else he’s done. That King Stannis was humiliated in his attempt to take King’s Landing. He learns that Sansa has been married to Tyrion Lannister and, while it is good to hear that the girl is alive, he’s sad to hear she’s been forced into a marriage. He hears that Renly’s widow, _what an interesting way to learn a man is dead_ , is set to marry King Joffrey tomorrow. And that the Night’s Watch is struggling in some conflict with the wildlings. _Jon is strong, he’ll be alright._

At the docks, he asks around until he can find the dock master. The man is a grizzled older man with the leathery skin of a sailor. He asks about ships heading south and the man tells him that there aren’t many ships willing to take the risk because the fall storms have been very unforgiving this season. He’s about to ask if any ships can be paid to take the risk, he’s got quite a bit of money from his wage as a guard since he didn’t have much to spend it on, when a messenger comes bursting into the room.

The dock master make unintelligible barking noises as the boy tries to wheeze through whatever he is trying to say. He gets the boy to sit in a chair, to take a drink of water, and manages to get the dock master to stop yelling.

As the boy catches his breath, the dock master demands, “Well, what was so important that you think you can burst in here!”

The boy gulps another mouthful of water and says. “Lord Manderly has demanded that you anchor all ships.” The dock master makes disbelieving noises and the messenger fumbles through his things. After a moment, the boy produces a letter with the House Manderly seal that is quickly snatched out of his hands.

The dock master’s rising eyebrows tells him the boy isn’t lying and he turns back to look at the boy. “Do you know why?”

The boy looks around before leaning forward and whispering. “A ship came in two days ago from the Fingers. There’s been rumors all week that King Robb is dead,” he does his best not to reel at the news, “but those kind of rumors happen all the time when there is war. Except, this ship from the Fingers came with a messenger from the Twins. I don’t know what that the message was but Lord Manderly was mighty upset after he received whatever that message was.”

The boys leans forward even more and he has to strain his ears to hear what he is saying. “I’m friends with a woman who tends to Lady Wylla and she says she heard Lady Wylla ranting about the messenger. She heard from Lady Wylla that the rumors are true! That King Robb was killed at a wedding feast at the Twins! By the Freys and the Boltons so that they could side with the crown. All sorts of lords have been taken hostage and the crown is threatening Lord Wylis so that the Manderlys will accept Lord Bolton as Warden of the North!”

The dock master chases them out of his office. The messenger races back towards the castle. A part of him was the aware enough to take him to the market, but he feels like he’s lost in a haze. He buys all the supplies he can reasonably carry and walks out of the city.

He hardly remembers the walk back to where Osha and Rickon were staying, but when he arrives it is dark and his feet hurt. Rickon asks him questions, but Osha shushes the boy and forces him to eat some watery herb broth. As he eats, Osha looks over the things he brought back with him and organizes them for travel.

“What did you learn?”

He blinks at her before looking over at Rickon. The boy is cuddled against Shaggydog, looking at him expectantly. “There won’t be any ships leaving White Harbor in the near future. They’ve all been docked by Lord Manderly.”

Osha narrows her eyes. “And they can’t help us?”

“No. Robb is dead.” He looks over at Rickon and frowns when he sees that Rickon isn’t bothered by the news. He’s starting to grow worried with how abnormal the boy’s reactions are. “And the crown is holding one of Lord Manderly’s sons hostage.”

There is a moment of silence as the situation sets in. Robb was dead. They couldn’t leave the north by ship. The Ironborn held the neck, so they couldn’t leave by foot. And every northern lord had a reason to act against them.

Osha grimaces and stands up. “That means there is only one direction left to go. North.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty excited for the next chapter because it will introduce a new POV character!


	39. Sansa

She _knows_ Littlefinger is lying when he finishes his speech. Her mother would never give her maidenhood to a man who wasn’t her husband. House Tully’s words were _Family, Duty, Honor_ and she knew how committed her mother was to those ideals. _How committed she had been._

Still, something makes her bite her tongue. Some sort of instinct keeps her from challenging her _savior._ Instead, she nods her head and asks to be given some privacy, to be given space to gather herself and clean her face. He brings his hand up and caresses the side of her face, drags his fingers against her cheek all the way back towards her ear before tucking a piece of her hair back, and it makes her skin crawl. The action is slow enough that she is worried he won’t leave, but, eventually, he bows his head and excuses himself.

With Littlefinger gone, the tears come back. They spill down her cheeks in warm trails and blur her vision. She staggers, unseeing, through the cabin, until she bumps into a bed. She collapses onto the floor and presses her face into the furs coving the bed. The furs muffle the sound of her sobs, to others, but all it does to her is make the sound bounce around in her head and her chest heave. She didn’t know who she was crying for, she didn’t even know if she was crying _for_ someone, but she can’t think for long enough to figure anything out.

Eventually, she stops crying; though, she isn’t sure if it’s because she is done crying or if her body can no longer produce tears. Her knuckles hurt from how tightly she had clenched her hands into the furs, her throat feels dry and raw, her legs shake when she trys to stand, her chest feels tight, her head aches like it never has before, and she feels so incredibly tired. A part of her wants to crawl into this bed and sleep, but she knows she can’t risk sleeping. She doesn’t know where they are heading, she doesn’t know what Littlefinger wants from her, she doesn’t know if she is safe. _Would I recognize safety, if I even felt it again?_

She stumbles a bit, having trouble finding her footing on the swaying of the ship, but it doesn’t keep her from exploring. The room is small, only a few paces long by a few more paces wide, so it doesn’t take her long to look through it. She pokes around and opens all the cabinets in the room. Tucked into a latched cabinet, she finds a barrel of water. The water tastes slightly of orange and she dabs a little of it on the edge of her cloak to clean her face.

She considers heading out of the cabin and looking for Littlefinger to get some answers, but, the second she puts her hand on the door handle, the ship rocks to the side and makes her tummy roil. She feels something rise up her throat and she has to sit down until the feeling passes. It takes a while, but it does pass; though, not fast enough for her to feel confident leaving the room.

She feels a chill run down her spine and it’s only then that she remembers the thing she had barely remembered to bring with her. She moves over to the chest Littlefinger had pointed out to her, but she had ignored in her first look over of the room. She fumbles open the chest and finds exactly what he told her there would be in the chest. She pokes through the items and the clothes are simple, and it does have everything she might need, but it isn’t what she is interested in.

She reaches under her dress and reaches for the thing she knotted around her waist over her shift. When Dontos had told her to find a dark dress in preparation for this, she had gone through all her things looking for something that would work. When she had been about to take her things to the godswood, she had been unable to resist going back to her summer silks and pulling this out. She pulls Sandor’s cloak out from under her dress and rubs the fabric between her fingers.

The white wool is not soft but it is also not rough and it has large brown splotches across it from where the blood set in and dried. She hasn’t been able to pull out this fabric since Sandor gave it to her, _left it for her?_ She was rarely alone in King’s Landing and her time alone always ran the risk of being interrupted, so she had never been able to pull it out and feel it again.

She doesn’t know why she brought it with her. She hadn’t been thinking when she walked back for it and pulled it out of its hiding place and she had been too frantic to wonder why she was wasting time knotting it around her waist when she was fleeing. She clears a space for it at the bottom of this chest, prepared to hide it away like she had before. _I don’t know what I would say if anyone found me with it._ She thinks of what could happen if someone found her with it. _I don’t know what I would do if someone tried to take it from me._ She feels more nausea come over her and makes a decision.

She tucks herself under the furs and tries to fight the rising bile. She should be happy, she’s alone in as long as she can remember. There is no one there to lie to her, there is no one she has to be worried about, there is no one she has to please. There is just her. _I’ve gotten what I’ve wanted. I wanted to be alone for a long time now._

Except that wasn’t true. She hadn’t wanted to be alone. She _wants_ to be surrounded by people. She wants to do needlework with Septa Mordane. She wants to talk with her friend Jeyne. She wants to learn how to be a proper lady from her mother. She wants to go to tourneys with her father. She wants to go on walks with Lady. She wants to hear Ser Rodrick bellow in the courtyard. She wants to listen to Ser Vorian tell her stories about knights. She wants to watch Jory and Alyn spar. She wants to play in the snow with her younger brothers. She wants to sit next to Robb during a feast. She wants to speak with Arya, even though they always ended up arguing. _But that’s impossible now, because they’re all gone. All that’s left is me._

She startles when there is a knock on the door. She untangles herself from the bed, smooths out her clothing, and answers the door. Littlefinger stands on the other side, holding a tray in his hands. “I brought you some food. In case you were hungry.”

She looks at the tray from his hands and sees soup, bread, and some wine. She only picked at her food at the wedding feast, _was that today, it feels so long ago,_ and her tummy has not settled, but she takes the tray with a murmured thanks.

Her doesn’t leave when she takes the tray, so she forces herself to eat some of it. She can feel his eyes on her as she does and it only makes her fading appetite disappear completely. Her bite of bread goes down like a stone and the wine only makes her head ache even more. Once she feels like she’s eaten enough of the food, she clears her throat and asks, “Where are you taking me?”

“We are going home.” And she stops listening after that because she is almost dizzy just from the idea of it. It wouldn’t be the same, nothing would ever be the same, but she’s wanted to go home for so long that the idea of that want coming true makes her want to cry again.

She comes back to herself when she feels a hand settle on her shoulder. Littlefinger is so close she can smell mint on his breath. She wants to get away from him but she has a tray in her lap, she has no space to back into, and she knows it isn’t the right thing to do. “You should rest, you do not look well. Today has been a difficult day for you.” She hesitantly nods her head as he takes the tray from her hands. He leaves as quickly as he appeared and again she is alone in this cold, dank room.

She unlaces her dress and lays back in the bed in only her shift. The furs are enough to warm her up, but it doesn’t do anything for the dampness of the room. Still, exhaustion immediately washes over her and she finds herself drifting off in moments.

And she finds herself back at the wedding feast, seated next to Ser Garlan and Lady Leonette. Tyrion was supposed to be seated next to her, but instead he was up by Joffrey, forced to serve the king wine. She remembers the feeling of sympathy she had felt at the display. She remembers what it had been like, being humiliated by Joffrey and knowing there was nothing she could do about it, knowing there was no one who was going to help her. _But Tyrion had helped me. He helped me the moment he arrived._

She watches as Joffrey begins to cough. At first, the coughs had been ignorable, but they grew louder and more desperate. As Joffrey reached for his throat everyone understood what was happening, the king was choking. _Except he wasn’t choking on food, he had been poisoned._ Ser Garlan had leapt out of his chair to reach the king, Lady Leonette had raced off to help her good sister, and she had stood up in her chair.

In reality, she had turned away and run through the crowd to reach the godswood. But in this dream, her feet remain rooted to the floor. They feel like iron weights that anchor her in place. Her whole body refuses to move and she’s forced to watch the scene before her.

She’s forced to watch as Joffrey chokes. Forced to watch his face turn red with effort. Forced to watch as the king claws at his throat, tearing vibrant red lines into his skin. Forced to watch as Joffrey’s eyes begin to bulge in his skull, wild and desperate. Forced to watch as his face turns such a dark shade of purple that it looks almost black. _Black, like the black amethysts from Asshai; except they weren’t amethysts, they were poison._

For a moment, she flashes back to earlier in the feast. Right when they had arrived and they had to great everyone else arriving. She remembers Lady Olenna approaching her. The wind had gotten into her hair, the old woman had said when she reached up to arrange it. She had never checked her hair during the feast, but no one else had touched her hair. She had never seen Olenna interact with the king’s food, but she hadn’t been watching. _Tyrion may not have liked Joffrey, but he was too smart to poison the king so openly. To kill him in a way that would make him the first to blame._

She’s thrust back into the moment by the noise. The space is loud with people screaming, people crying, and people panicking, but above all the noise she can hear Joffrey trying to breath. The noise was thin and high and it reminded her of the sound Jory had once been able to make with a blade of grass. Except, where Jory had turned the whistling into a song, Joffrey’s whistling just gets higher and thinner until it makes her head hurt. The sound goes on for so long she fears it will never stop. But she also fears what it means if the sound where to ever stop.

She wakes up right when she feels like her head might explode from the sound. She lurches out of her bed and scrabbles against the floor. She manages to reach her chamber pot in time to retch inside of it. The bile burns at her throat and brings tears to her eyes. She stays hunched over the pot hoping the feeling will pass, but no matter how long she waits it never fully goes away.

With nothing else for her to do, she staggers back to her bed and lays back down in the furs. But the moment she closes her eyes she sees Joffrey again, face as dark as black amethysts and throat painted red with blood. She tosses and turns and tries thinking of anything else to get her mind away from the horrible sight, but every time she closes her eyes his face comes back, bloated and terrifying, _terrified_.

She casts her eyes across the room in the hopes of finding something that will help her. Her eyes settle on the chest full of clothing and, in no time, she removes the thing she wants. She carefully covers the, mostly, white fabric with the furs and lays awake under the weight of her covers. She’s awake one moment and asleep the next, but, even if her sleep is not restful, she experiences a blessedly dreamless sleep.


	40. Jon

When he steps back into Mance’s tent, he quickly realizes something is wrong. He had been nowhere near Lady Stark when she gave birth to any of his siblings, but he didn’t need to be near her to hear her. Lady Stark, who was usually so prim and composed, could be heard screaming down the halls. The noise had been so concerning that, every time Lady Stark gave birth, Robb would run into his room as to not be alone; there had been something especially terrifying about hearing someone scream and knowing there was nothing you could do about it. Even though he had been just outside of the tent, he had not heard a sound from Dalla over the sound of the battle.

Once she hears him, Val spins around to look his way. For a moment, her face is desperate and hopeful, until she sees that it is him. Briefly, the woman looks crestfallen, before she takes a deep breath and hardens her resolve. “Put your sword away and get over here. I need another set of hands.” _It seems I don’t have to tell her that Mance isn’t coming._ He doesn’t sheath his sword, the battle may be won but it wasn’t over and he may need to react fast, but he does rush over and set it aside on the floor.

Once he reaches their side, it’s obvious that Dalla is _unwell._ Her face is drawn and pale, her eyes are glassy, her skin is wet with sweat, her jaw is clenched, and there is too much blood pooled between her legs. He’s never seen a woman give birth, but he had seen men die and this much blood was more in line with that. She doesn’t react when he kneels down next to her and it only solidifies that the birth is going poorly.

“There’s no way we can get a midwife or a healer?” He looks over at Val and her face hasn’t lost its stoniness. _She knows the answer, but I understand the hope that the answer could still surprise you._

“No. The army has broken, anyone who can is fleeing.” He tilts his head down to look at Dalla. “What do you need me to do?”

“Get behind her. Hold her legs back.” He and Val maneuver Dalla so that she’s propped up against his chest. He puts his hands behind Dalla’s knees and Val moves them further up. Dalla reaches up and grabs his upper arm with an iron grip, it’s the first time he’s felt like Dalla has noticed his arrival. “Don’t let go,” Val says to him before kneeling in between her sister’s legs. Any awkwardness from the situation is negated by the tension around them. The sound of the battle outside is muffled, but unmistakable, a constant reminder that the only thing that separated them from danger was some canvas.

He hears Val murmur to her sister and he tries to give them as much privacy as he can. He’s not supposed to be here, it’s supposed to be Mance helping his wife as their child is born, _it’s supposed to be a midwife between Dalla’s legs not Val_. He feels Dalla’s grip on his arm tighten even further and can hear her strained breath whistle through her teeth. It occurs to him that maybe he hadn’t heard Dalla earlier because she was trying to be quiet, because she knows that she is not safe.

This moment seems to drag on forever. Their vulnerability hangs over them like a knife and he’s hyperaware of every noise around them. Dalla’s grip on his arm alternates, she holds tight for a long while, before letting go slightly, before tightening her grip again. _I’ll be wearing the imprint of her fingers for days._ Val murmurs commands, before whispering soothing nothings, before returning to commands. The pattern cycles and repeats, cycles and repeats, until it doesn’t.

It ends with a heaving sigh from Dalla. The motion passes through her so strongly that she collapses back into his chest. He lets go of her legs to keep her from slumping onto the floor and looks down at Val when she doesn’t scold him. He has to choke down a sound of concern at the sight of all the blood; there is a large pool of it on the ground, it’s smeared all across Dalla’s thighs, it coats Val’s arms all the way up to her elbows, and it covers the baby in Val’s grip. Val cuts at a cord connecting mother to child, ties the flesh into a knot, and wipes down the child, before gently placing the babe on Dalla’s chest.

“It’s a boy, Dalla,” the boy lets out a wail as though affirming what she whispered. Val reaches out to move hair off Dalla’s face. Neither sister seems to care that it means smearing blood on her face. “It’s a boy.”

After a motion from Val, he lays Dalla down. He watches as Dalla weakly puts her hand on her child’s back and murmurs something too soft for him to hear, before stepping away to pick up his sword. The sound outside has changed and he’s sure it means the raiding has begun. _The king’s tent will be the one everyone will want to take,_ he spares a glance at the new mother and her red-faced baby, _and I cannot allow that._

He faces the trio properly and finds Val looking at him. Her face is still hardened with resolve, but he can see she is beginning to crack. Her sister was still bleeding, her sister was dying and they both knew it. “I’m going to stand guard outside. I’ll make sure no one gets in.” She sends him a faint, melancholy, smile and he turns around to leave.

\---

He stands sentinel outside the tent, with his sword barred for all to see. He doesn’t know how much time has passed with him in the tent but the passage of time is obvious in the state of the encampment. When he arrived, the encampment had been disorganized but bustling, with people and animals and carts moving all through the camp. Now it looks closer to an abandoned ruin. Tents lie in tatters all across the ground, horse hooves have upturned the snow and dirt, carts are rolled over on their side except for those that have been smashed into splinters, and corpses can be seen all throughout the wreckage.

This carnage is so different from the carnage he had seen under Castle Black. Their side hadn’t lost many people in that battle, and all the ones they had lost had all been men from the Night’s Watch. And while all the wildlings who had been a part of that attack had died, they had barely numbered more than a hundred. He can’t imagine how many wildlings have died in this battle, where they have been caught unaware and with so many noncombatants. He can see the red pulp of what once had been a person, next to an overturned cart he can see a delicate and unmoving hand, earlier he has seen Harma Dogshead’s head on a pole, he can see red streaks of blood where he assumes someone was dragged, and, even if he can’t see them, he can hear the cries of countless others dying.

_How many people have the wildlings lost? Did Varamyr survive or was he trampled underfoot? I saw Mance go down, but was he killed or captured? Is Tormund among the dead, or did he manage to escape with some others?_ He tried not to think of the one casualty he knew of this battle, of a mother taken from her child too soon. He tried not to wonder if that’s what happened to his mother and if that is why his father had never spoken of her.

He clenches and unclenches his fingers around the grip of his sword. He tries to make sense of the arms he can see; of the seahorses on green, of a fox surrounded by blue flowers, of a tricolored triple spire, of a turtle on green, of black birds on yellow, but he knows northern arms best and none of these are northern arms. The soldiers had cried Stannis, so it feels safe to assume that most of these men are from the Stormlands.

Some of those knights look his way, but none of them approach him. His guess is that they are looking for easy loot and that the tent with a man standing guard was anything but. Or maybe they recognized him as a man of the Night’s Watch and thought that the king’s tent was already claimed. Either way it makes his task easier.

Eventually, he’s approached by another brother of the Night’s Watch. This brother is on the younger side, taller than him but lanky in a way that make him think they aren’t done growing. The brother wields an unbloodied sword that he holds loosely to his side, which makes him think this black brother helped lead Stannis here but didn’t participate in the battle.

“I’m Emmett from Eastwatch.” He’s not that surprised to hear that he’s from Eastwatch. Most of Stannis’s troops had come from the east. “Who are you?”

“Jon Snow, from Castle Black.”

Emmett’s eyebrows rise up his face. “Castle Black? Shouldn’t you be behind the Wall? Why are you out here?”

“I was sent to parley with the King Beyond the Wall, we didn’t know anyone was coming.” He assumes that Emmett didn’t know anything about why they hadn’t been informed, because he doesn’t say anything. “This is the king’s tent. Go inform… someone that the king’s wife has surrendered and that there are _things of value_ that need to be collected from the tent.” He doesn’t know what keeps him from telling Emmett about the Horn of Winter, but he figures it will be easier to explain this in person instead of having it explained secondhand.

“Impressive.” Emmett swiftly turns and starts jogging away. “I’ll be sure to let them know you captured the king’s tent.”

Emmett is gone before he gets the chance to correct him, but the correction sits heavy on his tongue. _He didn’t capture them, they surrendered because they had no choice_. The distinction may not mean anything to the them, but the distinction mattered to the wildlings. Still, Emmett was too far to correct now.

With Emmett gone, all there was left for him to do was wait. His upper arm throbs from his newly developing bruises. He continues his vigil and tried not to think of how long Dalla got to spend with her son.


	41. Jaime

He’s learned to really appreciate his time alone with Ashara. Rhaenys had thought she was being sneaky when she had first left him with Ashara so that she could spirit away Morgan, and maybe if they didn’t know her so well she would have been successfully sneaky, but it had been obvious to both of them that their supervision was not wanted. Moving forward, instead of pretending they didn’t notice the ploy, they scheduled evening teas where it was just the two of them; though, calling these meeting evening teas was inaccurate since they did whatever they were feeling that day.

The first day they had talked about historical knights. When he was young, the only topic that he had ever been interested in reading more about had been knights and, while the interest meant he read more than people expected of him, it also meant that he was used to knowing things about knights that other people didn’t know, it meant that he was used to having to inform other people about what he wanted to talk about instead of _talking_ about what he wanted to talk about. He had been distantly aware that Ashara was a historian, he had read part of the book she was writing on the last twenty years in Westeros, but there was a difference between knowing she was a historian and hearing her talk about history. So being able to talk to Ashara about this interest had been refreshing, to say the least.

The next time they met they talked about his time in Essos and the things he experienced there, the time after that Ashara told him about the Dornish court, the time after that they talked about the inconvenience of traveling and the places they had been, and the time after that they had talked about nothing and instead just sat in companionable silence. One notable evening, when he had astounded Ashara with his needlework skills, he told her about how he and Cersei used to trade clothing and attend each other’s lessons to see if anyone would notice. On a particularly melancholy evening, they talked about their lives before Robert’s Rebellion. Once, when they decided to meet in the morning instead of the evening, he convinced Ashara to tell him about all the mischievous things she did in her youth. And, on one memorable night, Ashara plied him with wine so that he would sing for her while she embroidered.

It embarrassed him slightly when he realized that Ashara was the first friend he had made in the past two decades. To be fair to himself, there had always been a certain level of paranoia in all his interactions with people in Essos. No one but Varys knew that Rhaenys survived the sack, but he had heard of all the things Robert had promised for her aunt’s and uncle’s head, and he’d also heard that his father had offered a generous reward to find him. Becoming close to someone wasn’t worth the risk of that person finding out who they were and trying to hand them over for a substantial reward. And it’s not like he didn’t interact with people, he’d been _friendly_ with his coworkers and merchants, they had just never been close.

He was more embarrassed by the realization that Ashara is his first _close_ friend since Addam Marbrand. Much like with Ashara, his friendship with Addam had been an easy thing. They had been boys of similar interests and Addam had been of an adventurous but courteous nature, who didn’t spurn his own impulsiveness and knew exactly what to say when they should have gotten in trouble. _Addam had also been one of the few who always treated Tyrion well._ But Addam had been his childhood friend, and he had no good excuse as to why he hadn’t made another close friend since he was six years old. _I wonder if Addam still thinks of me as his friend. I wonder if he believes that Tyrion killed the king._

The news of what was happening in King’s Landing hung over their evenings like a cloud. Oberyn had been keeping Ashara informed on all the things that had been happening since he arrived into King’s Landing. The prince had been frustratingly light on the details, but he was sure that had to do with the prince respecting Ashara’s distaste for politics and King’s Landing as a whole, and that the letters Doran was surely receiving had all the details he was looking for. 

Still, he was grateful Ashara was sharing this information with him, since she had no obligation to. She had no obligation to pass on who Oberyn had seen in King’s Landing; finding out that Addam had been one of the few to be at Oberyn’s arrival to the city had gotten him thinking about his friends, or lack thereof. She had no obligation to tell him what Oberyn thought of his brother; Oberyn had named his brother the most tolerable of the Lannisters and had informed her that his brother was now the picture of a warrior, _and it made such an odd picture, knowing that Tyrion had a scar across his face, when his mind refused to see Tyrion as anything but the boy he had left._ She had no obligation to tell him that Tyrion had been accused of murdering King Joffrey, by his sister of all people, _and what does it say about me that I think of the boy as king before I think of him as my nephew._

There was no doubt in his mind that Tyrion didn’t kill Joffrey. Tyrion had never been inclined towards violence and anger. His brother had been more inclined towards introspection and trying to understand what he did wrong. Moreover, Tyrion had been smarter than him back then, and he couldn’t imagine that his brother hadn’t been getting smarter with time. A smart man would know better than to poison a man in front of hundreds of witnesses and in a manner that would make people immediately suspect him. He was sure Tyrion did not poison the king. _But,_ a dark part of him that burned like acid whispered, _you’ve been gone for two decades, how much can be expected to remain unchanged? How well did you know him to begin with?_

His knowledge of what was happening in King’s Landing meant that he was already dreading what was coming when Ashara arrived at their meeting with a letter in hand. His dread only intensified when he took in Ashara’s politely neutral face. Ashara Dayne was an expressive woman, full of laughter and wry grins, puffed cheeks and soft glances, fierce glares and judgmental looks, but she was also a woman with absolute control over her expressions. She only schooled her face into the perfect mask he was seeing now when she didn’t want people to see how she was feeling. Whatever news that had warranted that face was not news he looked forward to hearing. He had to wonder if he would be hearing this information if she hadn’t promised to pass on anything she heard.

Still, he waits for her to settle before saying anything. Ashara would not have brought this letter with her if she didn’t plan on sharing the information with him, there was no need to rush her. He tries to keep his gaze light as she sits down in the chair across from his. The moment she sits down she looks him right in the eye; she does not fuss with her skirts, she does not pick at the things on the table between them, she does not unfold or crease the letter in her hand, nor does she do any of the other things a person might do to buy themselves more time; instead, she unflinchingly meets his gaze. Still, he is the one who breaks the silence, “Another letter from Prince Oberyn?”

“It is,” she says slowly and in a way that makes the pause that follows feel less like a pause and more like a natural break. “Though, I regret to tell you that Oberyn has been sparing in the details.”

He fights the urge to furrow his brow, he would much rather she just tell him than dance around the matter. “I take it this has to do with the accusations against Tyrion.” Though her face does not change, he can tell she is carefully watching his reactions.

“it does. It seems that the accusations against your brother have been sustained. There will be a public trial on the matter; with Lord Tywin, Lord Mace Tyrell, and Prince Oberyn acting as judges.” He trys to figure where Ashara’s, and to an extent Oberyn’s, concern is coming from. Tyrion was the heir of House Lannister; his father couldn’t get rid of him. “But, Oberyn has done some investigating and he believes this trial to be a farce. He claims that Queen Cersei has amassed an obscene number of witness and that Lord Tyrion has not had the chance to gather any witnesses.”

He stands up. He circles around the chair he was sitting in, then paces alongside the length of the wall, out of the need to do _something._ He can feel Ashara’s eyes follow him and that weight makes him turn back towards her. It is only because he has gotten the chance to know her that he can read through what she is trying to hide. He could tell that Ashara knew more, and was hesitating. The realization stops him, roots his feet to the floor and forces him to look at her. In a reverse of their moment earlier, Ashara is the one to break the silence. “Oberyn believes that the only way Tyrion comes out alive, is through a trial by combat.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like it has been punched out of his lungs. He spins on his heel and returns to pacing. He walks the length of the room in a handful of steps, the width in a handful more. The room, a sitting room on Rhaenys’s side of the Water Gardens, is too small. He feels caged, like the lions that had once resided under Casterly Rock, back when his grandfather had been alive. “Tyrion is the heir of Casterly Rock. They can’t- They can’t just get rid of him.”

He continues his track around the room. Ashara says nothing in response, leaving him alone to his own thoughts. _If Tyrion dies, Casterly Rock would go to Cersei. It would be the end of the Lannister name. His father would never allow that._ He turns makes another circuit of the room and it doesn’t feel like enough. _But Tyrion has no one to come to his defense. Even Tywin Lannister cannot make something out of nothing._ A thought curdled like a stone in his gut, _even if father could, what if he didn’t want to._

He whirls back to look at Ashara. She has dropped her mask and now stares at him with open concern. “Oberyn thinks Tyrion’s _only_ chance is a trial by combat. But if he couldn’t get anyone to _speak_ in his defense how will he get someone to _fight_ in his defense.” He goes back to his pacing, but has to turn back around to continue. _This room is too small._

Ashara stands from her chair. “Jaime-,” she starts, but he doesn’t hear the rest of what she has to say. He’s had enough of this room and storms into the hallway. He can hear Ashara follow after him. She manages to get close enough to grab at his arm and force him to face her “Jaime! You need to stop and think-“

“Think about what? Ashara, he is my brother. If it comes down to a trial by combat he will be forced to face a Kingsguard with no one to defend him! How can I stay here when I can help him? How can I not save him, when not going means he’ll die?”

Her lilac eyes are wide with concern, but, this close, he can see that her mouth is tight with frustration. “Jaime, it is not that simple.”

“No?” He peels her hands off his shoulders. “Because it feels mighty simple to me.” This time, she doesn’t grab at him when he turns away. She lets him walk away from her.

Or so he thinks. He’s about halfway down the hall when she snarls at him, “If you go you won’t come back!” A part of him swears he hears footsteps, but when he turns to look at her she Ashara is exactly where he left her. “If you go to King’s Landing you will be forced to stay in King’s Landing,” her voice is steely and as cold as a blade. She stalks towards him now, her hands fisted in her skirts and the line of her shoulders radiating anger. “Do you think your father will just let you appear into the city to save your brother and disappear at your own convenience? Do you truly think Tywin Lannister would let something he’s wanted for two decades appear in his hand and then slip through his fingers? Do you think he won’t ask you where you’ve been? Why you disappeared to begin with? Have you thought about what you’ll tell him? Because telling him the truth is out of the question.”

They are nose to nose by the time she finishes. Their eyes are locked in a battle of wills; her head tilted back defiantly and his head tilted forward in a glower. His jaw aches from how tightly he’s clenched it, he’s sure her hands are in a similar state, but neither of them wants to give up their hold on their anger. If possible, Ashara tilts her head back even more, but the words out of her mouth are as soft as silk, “Have you thought of what you’ll tell _her_?”

He crumples into himself like a man struck in the gut. There is no question who Ashara is talking about. “He is my brother,” the words weakly fill the space between them.

“I know he is your brother. I know what that means to you and I know how much you want to save him.” And if anyone else had said those words he might have scoffed, but he knew of Ashara’s bond with her own brother. He’d heard the story of how she forced an escort to take her to the place Eddard Stark had entombed her brother. Heard her confess that the only think that kept her from turning over the stones on her brother’s body was her maester’s cautionary words, all dead men’s bones looked the same he’d said. “But you cannot act hastily. In matters of life and death it is dangerous to act while afraid. There is nothing to be gained and much to be lost with your brother’s death, anyone with sense will not let that come to pass.”

It is a weak defense in the face of what they know, but she’s gotten what she wanted. The impulse to act is gone and all he is left with is a dissatisfying empty feeling in his chest. _It would take me more than a week to reach King’s Landing by sea, even longer by land, and to even make that journey I would have to sneak out of Dorne; there is no guarantee I would even make it in time to be of any help. What would be the point of racing all the way to King’s Landing if it is only to watch my brother be executed?_ He takes a deep breath and steps away from Ashara. For a lack of anything better to say he says, “Thank you for telling me.”

Ashara’s eyes are soft and sad. “I’m sorry I didn’t have better news.”

“I appreciate it all the same.” When he steps away she doesn’t stop him. With his evening with Ashara disrupted and with nothing better to do, he heads for Brightdawn’s secluded courtyard. It had been weeks, but Rhaenys still stayed up long into the night in the hopes of seeing Brightdawn. That courtyard was the best place to find her, and if she wasn’t there then it was the best place to wait for her.

Rhaenys is in the courtyard, but he doesn’t find her where he is expecting. He finds her sitting on the floor, facing away from him, with Balerion in her arms. The cat is tucked into her neck and lifts his head to send him a solemn look over her shoulder, before tucking himself back into her neck. He rushes over when he notices the quiver in Rhaenys’s shoulders.

He kneels next to her and touches his hand on her shoulder. She turns to look at him with large, glassy eyes and he feels something claw in his chest. There are tears running wet trails down her cheeks and her nose is a bright, cherry red. “Rhaenys,” and it speaks to how upset she is that she doesn’t correct him, “why are you crying?”

Her lower lip wobbles and her gaze drops away from his. He hears the crinkling of paper and carefully takes the parchment she offers him. “It’s the last letter my mother ever wrote.” When she doesn’t say anything more, he looks down at the letter in his hand.

_My dearest brother,_

_I hope this letter reaches you promptly. I know you are in Essos, I know I sent you to Essos, but I trust in Doran’s ability to find you._

_If you have not heard, things are looking volatile in Westeros at the moment. The king is looking increasingly unstable and my husband is nowhere to be found. I have written all I can to reassure Doran, and I can only hope it is enough._

_But I must be honest with you, because I have never been able to lie to you: I am afraid. It’s not just the king, who I have heard troubling rumors of his increasing madness, and it is not just my husband, who’s thoughtlessness may have damned the seven kingdoms, but it is my son who keeps me awake with worry._

_Oberyn, he is so quiet. There are nights where I hover over his crib and touch him just so that I can be sure he is still alive. It has gotten to the point where I have given up on the nursery and his nurses and instead take care of him myself. He sleeps in my bed, he is never far from my arms, and still I find myself wondering if he has passed without me noticing._

_When Rhaenys was born, people whispered of infidelity, of weak dragon’s blood, of overpowering Dornish blood. There are no such whispers about Aegon. Aegon is so much like his father, not just in looks but in the stillness that surrounds the boy. I have only seen that stillness break around his sister. Rhaenys can make her brother smile, laugh, and babble in a way no one, not even I, can._

_I am so proud of my little sun. She is smart and vibrant and strong, much stronger than any child should ever have to be. She is not jealous of her brother even though he takes so much of my attention. She does not begrudge her father even though he has disappeared. Whenever I feel overwhelmed she is there to lift my spirits. I worry that I may be putting more pressure on her, that she may be hiding how she is truly feeling because she is worried about worrying me. She is so observant for such a little girl, and I worry she sees too much._

_When we were young, mother told us that there was nothing like a mother’s love, and I did not understand what she truly meant until now. A mother’s love is not about what the child feels, it is about what the mother feels. It is about this powerful and undeniable force that overflows within me and demands that I do everything I can for my children. Oberyn, all I want is for my children to be safe and happy and satisfied; especially little Rhaenys, who has already begun to realize how terrifying the world can be._

_I beg your pardon brother, it seems I have begun to ramble and Rhaenys has decided she would like my company. You have always made it easy for me to bear my heart to you, even when you are not with me. I hope you are well and that I have not worried you too much. As much as it pains me to say it, I have faith in Rhaegar doing what he must to protect our children. And yes, I am aware of the irony of putting my faith in an unfaithful man._

_Your dearest sister and her little sun,_

Under the signoff was Elia’s signature in clean sweeping strokes, and next to it was Rhaenys’s signature in the wobbly, but surprisingly clean, letters of a child. As though to further emphasize that Rhaenys had written her own name, the ‘s’ at the end of her name was smudged by a tiny thumbprint, like the little girl hadn’t been paying attention and put her hand on the wet ink.

“I remember this one.” When her looks at her, she’s looking at the floor. “I remember looking for her because she had been gone for too long. Even though I was interrupting what she was doing, she smiled and sat me in her lap. She put her hand over mine to help me write my name.” She rubs the back of her wrist against her cheeks, but it doesn’t do much considering she is still crying.

“Oh Rhaenys.” He rubs his hand across her back in soothing circles. But she doesn’t seem to relax. She continues to shake and cry and the longer it goes on the more it hurts him.

“I won’t-“ she blurts out, abrupt and interrupted by a wet sounding sniffle. “I won’t keep you here. I won’t force you to stay, not if you don’t want to.” _Oh._ She seems to hunch in on herself even more, as though she can protect herself by curling in on herself.

“Oh Rhaenys.” He wraps his arms around her frame and rests his cheek on the top of her head. He doesn’t let himself be bothered by how still and tense she remains in his embrace. “I’m not going anywhere. Not as long as you’ll have me. You’re stuck with me until you’ve decided you have had enough and send me away.” It takes a moment, with each second feeling like an eternity, but eventually she relaxes and lets him fold her into his chest.


	42. Tyrion

Ser Addam walks him back to his quarters after the trial. The knight does not speak more than is required but his words are courteous and he moves at a pace that isn’t liable to make him look like a waddling duck. Ser Addam is nothing but professional in his treatment of him, has always been professional in his treatment of him, but now it stings in a way it hadn’t before.

It’s now that he’s been isolated into his quarters that he really has begun to miss Podrick. His squire was quiet and stuttering, but having the boy around would at least give him someone to talk to. He briefly wonders how the boy is doing with that Tarth woman, if the pair has found _either_ Stark girl, but mostly he wishes Podrick was here. That he had someone around to distract him from his own thoughts. _It’s for the best, the boy murdered a Kingsguard to save my life, he wouldn’t be safe here._

He had never expected this trial to go well for him, he was aware that he had no one to speak on his behalf and he was aware of his reputation in this city, but he hadn’t expected it to go this poorly. He hadn’t expected to be faced with so any people he barely knew willing to testify against him, _with so many people willing to kill me_. He hadn’t expected the white-hot anger that burned through him, nor the bone deep exhaustion that settle through him afterward. He wasn’t expecting for one of the people who could have defended him to disappear; _though, would Sansa have defended me? The girl was adept at telling people what they wanted to hear. If she thought lying would keep her safe, would she tell the truth?_

He poured himself a cup of wine and sat at the window. The sky was full of dark clouds heavy with rain. There had been a slight shower the day before, but it hadn’t rained enough to match the vision in the sky. It was like the clouds were holding their breath, waiting for the opportune moment to release their torrent on the city. _Maybe the clouds will be the only ones to weep during my execution._

And he was almost sure this would end in his execution. Almost sure that this trial had just been the spectacle leading to his head laying on the execution block. _The question is; would I rather this end in my execution or in my disgrace?_ All he had to do was confess to killing Joffrey, his nephew, and then he could take the black. All he had to do was hope that the gamble that had ended so fatally for Eddard Stark worked for him. _Would I rather die or live disgraced and with my legacy in shambles? Can I do something so contrary to the only lesson father cared to personally teach me?_

_And that’s assuming I’m not trading one guaranteed death for another._ Maester Aemon had sent letter after letter asking for aid against the wildlings, letters that the crown had completely ignored. The maester had informed them that the Night’s Watch was faced with war at the Wall. Something he, personally, knew they were woefully unequipped for. If the Night’s Watch had received no aid then he couldn’t imagine the war was going well for them. He had barely survived two outmatched battles, he didn’t like his chances of surviving a third. _And that’s assuming I don’t die at the hands of someone I sent there. Though, at least I would have one friend there, assuming Jon isn’t dead._

If he wasn’t so tired he thinks he might be angry, hideously and unflinchingly angry. But he is tired, just tired enough to mellow that anger into something dull but persistent. A part of him thinks that if he wasn’t so angry he might have given up by now. That he might have accepted his death coming for him. And that awareness is scary enough that he holds on to his anger. Let’s it consume him at inappropriate times because he is afraid of what could happen if he loses the anger. Still, in this moment where he has nothing to focus on, he can feel his grip on his anger wane and helplessness sink in.

He hears voices outside his door. _Ser Kevan, come for my answer,_ but it was not his uncle who entered.

He rises to give Prince Oberyn a mocking bow. “Are judges permitted to visit the accused?”

“Princes are permitted to go where they will. Or so I told your guards.” The Red Viper took a seat. The man doesn’t survey the room, instead his dark gaze focuses solely on him.

“My father will be displeased with you.”

“The happiness of Tywin Lannister has never been high on my list of concerns. Is it Dornish wine you’re drinking?”

“From the Arbor.”

Oberyn made a face. “Red water. Did you poison him?” He isn’t sure if he respects the prince’s bluntness or is offended by it.

“No. Did you?”

The prince smiled. “Do all dwarfs have tongues like yours? Someone is going to cut it out one of these days.”

“You are not the first to tell me that. Perhaps I should cut it out myself, it seems to make no end of trouble.”

“So I’ve seen. I think I may drink some of Lord Redwyne’s grape juice after all.”

“As you like.” He stands to serve the prince a cup and watches as the man drinks.

“It will serve, for the moment. I will send you some strong Dornish wine on the morrow.” There is a pause as the prince drinks some more. “I have turned up that golden-haired whore I was hoping for.”

“So you found Chataya’s?”

“I did. But the whore I referred to is your sister.”

“Has she seduced you yet?” He can’t say he’s surprised, his sister had made it clear she wants to see him dead and would do anything it takes to see it happen.

Oberyn laughs aloud. “No, but she will if I meet her price. All your sister requires from me is one head, somewhat overlarge and missing a nose.”

He can’t resist rubbing the stub of what remains of his nose. “And?”

By way of answer Prince Oberyn swirled his wine, and said, “When the Young Dragon conquered Dorne so long ago, he left the Lord of Highgarden to rule us after the Submission of Sunspear. This Tyrell moved with his tail from keep to keep, chasing rebels and making certain that our knees stayed bent. He would arrive in force, take a castle for his own, stay a moon’s turn, and ride on to the next castle. It was his custom to turn the lords out of their own chambers and take their beds for himself. One night he found himself beneath a heavy velvet canopy. A sash hung down near the pillows, should he wish to summon a wench. He had a taste for Dornish women, this Lord Tyrell, and who can blame him? So he pulled upon the sash, and when he did the canopy above him split open, and a hundred red scorpions fell down upon his head. His death lit a fire that soon swept across Dorne, undoing all the Young Dragon’s victories in a fortnight. The kneeling men stood up, and we were free again.”

“I know the tale,” said Tyrion. “What of it?”

“Just this. If I should ever find a sash beside my own bed, and pull on it, I would sooner have the scorpions fall upon me than the queen in all her naked beauty.”

He grinned. “We have that much in common, then.”

“To be sure, I have much to thank your sister for. If not for her accusation at the feast, it might well be you judging me instead of me judging you.” The prince’s eyes were dark with amusement. “Who knows more of poison than the Red Viper of Dorne, after all? Who has better reason to want to keep the Tyrells far from the crown? And with Joffrey in his grave, by _Dornish_ law there is a queen to be crowned in Dorne.”

It takes him a moment to realize he is talking of Myrcella. “Dornish law does not apply.” He hadn’t even stopped to consider the succession. “My father will crown Tommen, count on that.”

“He may indeed crown Tommen, here in King’s Landing. Which is not to say my brother may not crown a queen, down in Sunspear.” The prince’s eyes are dark and intent. “Will your father make war on your niece on behalf of your nephew?” The prince leans forward into his space and he finds himself enthralled. “Give up the Lannister legacy for a crown?” The prince’s voice is hushed, making him lean forward. In this moment, he thinks Oberyn could convince him to sell his soul. “Choose daughter over son?”

And with that, the moment is gone. If it was Jaime they were talking about, he knows the answer would be more muddled. But it isn’t his brother they are talking about, it’s him and the answer is clearer. Father may not always be pleased with Cersei, but he had to learn to be disappointed in her. Whereas, he had been born a disappointment to him. _And where is Jaime? Why isn’t he here? He was in Westeros, is likely still in Westeros, and he must have heard about what is happening to me. So where is he, why hasn’t he come to save me?_ He isn’t sure if he’s more upset by the thought or the childishness hope of the thought. “It doesn’t matter. My father will not let it come to that.”

Prince Oberyn leans back in his chair. “Your father,” he says in a blasé way more suited for the weather, “may not live forever.”

The hairs on the back of his neck bristle and he finds himself remembering why Oberyn is in King’s Landing. _He wants the head that spoke the words, not just the hand that swung the sword._ “It is not wise to speak such treasons in the Red Keep, my prince. The little birds are listening.”

“Let them. Is it treason to say a man is mortal? _Valar morhgulis_ was how they said it in Valyria of old. _All men must die._ And the Doom came and proved it true.” The Dornishman went to the window to gaze out into the night. “It is said that you have no witnesses for us.”

The change in topic almost leaves him dizzy. “I was hoping one look at this sweet face of mine would be enough to persuade you all of my innocence.”

“You are mistaken, my lord. The Fat Flower of Highgarden is quite convinced of your guilt, and determined to see you die. His precious Margaery was drinking from that chalice too, as he has reminded us half a hundred times.”

“And you?”

“Men are seldom as they appear. You look so very guilty that I am convinced of your innocence. Still, you will likely be condemned. Justice is in short supply this side of the mountains. There has been none for Elia, Aegon, or Rhaenys. Why should there be any for you? Perhaps Joffrey’s real killer was eaten by a bear. That seems to happen quite often in King’s Landing. Oh, wait, the bear was at Harrenhal, now I remember.”

“Is that the game we are playing?” He rubbed at his scarred nose. He had nothing to lose by telling Oberyn the truth. “There was a bear at Harrenhal, and it did kill Ser Amory Lorch.”

“How sad for him,” said the Red Viper. “And for you. Do all noseless men lie so badly, I wonder?”

“I am not lying. Ser Amory dragged Princess Rhaenys out from under her father’s bed and stabbed her to death. He had some men-at-arms with him, but I do not know their names.” He leaned forward. “It was Ser Gregor Clegane who smashed Prince Aegon’s head against a wall and raped your sister Elia with his blood and brains still on his hands.”

“What is this, now?” Truth, from a Lannister?” Oberyn smiled coldly. “Your father gave the commands, yes?”

“No.” He spoke the lie without hesitation, and never stopped to ask himself why he should.

The Dornishman raised one thin black eyebrow. “Such a dutiful son. And such a feeble lie. It was Lord Tywin who presented my sister’s children to King Robert all wrapped up in crimson Lannister cloaks.”

“Perhaps you ought to have this discussion with my father. He was there. I was at the Rock, and still so young that I thought the thing between my legs was only good for pissing.”

“Yes, but you are here now, and in some difficulty, I would say. Your innocence may be as plain as the scar on your face, but it will not save you. No more than your father will.” The Dornish prince smiled, in a way he could only describe as feral. “But I might.”

“You?” He paused to better make his point. “You are one judge in three. How could you save me?”

“Not as your judge. As your champion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I prefer picking up scenes where canon left of, as I'm sure you've all noticed, but I don't think I could completely rewrite this dialogue in a way that would do the original justice.


	43. Rhaenys

It was like there was something wrong in the air from the moment the day started. She woke up feeling anxious and on edge, like her body was waiting for something to happen. When she broke her fast she knocked a bowl off the table and it shattered into a hundred pieces; Jaime had cut his finger when sharpening his blade, it had only been a minor cut but it was something he said hadn’t happened to him in decades; Balerion had gotten stuck under a piece of furniture and required their assistance to get out; and she couldn’t count the number of times she had stared off into the distance as her attention escaped her. But it still felt like this was only the calm before the storm.

And it seemed like others felt the same, because, as some instinct sent her to Doran’s preferred sitting room, she found Doran already sitting with Ashara and Morgan. There had been an attempt at small talk when she arrived, but the attempt gave way to restless silence. It felt like they were all animals futilely huddled together to try and protect each other from a storm.

The silence is interrupted by the entering of Aero Hotah. The man opens the door into the room and his sturdy steps sound loud in the silence. The man holds a letter, the piece of parchment almost swallowed by his large hand. The man sets the letter in front of her uncle and steps to the side, Hotah was not one to leave until he was dismissed. Doran did not dismiss him, only thanked him for the delivery. Doran, much like the rest of them, did nothing but stare at the piece of parchment in front of him.

The letter is sealed with a blob of red wax, dark as blood and just as foreboding. They all knew that Oberyn had taken part in a trail by combat. They all knew that a letter sent by Oberyn would be sealed in orange wax. They all knew that a letter sent by the King’s Hand, sent by _Tywin Lannister_ , would be sealed by red wax. They all knew what a letter sent by Tywin Lannister meant. But they wouldn’t truly _know_ until the letter was opened, and they all wanted to live in that ignorance for just a little bit longer.

Ashara is the one to break. With a bracing inhale, Ashara reaches for the letter while looking directly towards Doran. The prince closes his eyes and gives a weary nod of his head. The wax gives way with a snap under the pressure of her fingers.

Ashara does not read the letter aloud, there is no need to, they all know what it says. When Ashara finished reading, she folds the parchment back up and murmurs, “I am sorry Doran,” but, even before she says anything, Doran already looks tired and sad, Morgan has already hung his head to stare at his hands, and she has already begun to feel the build-up of pressure in her chest.

As the reality of the situation begins to set in, they all stand to leave. Doran does not ask them to leave, but they can all read that there is something private about his grief. Ashara leaves the letter on the table as they march out like soldiers from the room. They scatter like leaves once they are standing in the hall; they brush against each other for comfort but make no noise aside from the rustling of their clothing.

She aimlessly walks away from the room. Her journey passes in a blur and the only thing she is aware of is the sound of Jaime walking in pace with her. Her mind feels empty. She isn’t aware of any thoughts swirling through her head, of any emotions coating her actions, or of any urges pushing her to do something. All she is aware of is the sound of her steps, a hum inside her head, and of a pressure inside her that pushes at her ribs.

She finds herself in her private courtyard. She spends so much time here that she isn’t surprised her absentminded walking led her here. She walks over to a seat and collapses into it with a sigh. The sky above her is dark and cloudy. _I don’t want to be caught out here if it rains. I don’t know if I even want to stay here, I’ve spent so much time waiting and hiding here._

She can hear Jaime settle down beside her, can even see him slightly in her peripherals, far enough that he’s not directly next to her but close enough that he can be next to her in a moment. He doesn’t say anything to her, _he’s probably trying to read how I’m feeling._

She’s aware that the way she is acting right now is unprecedented. She tended to cry when upset, so much so that, when she was younger, Jaime had learned to be hyperaware of when she was upset enough to cry. She should be crying right now, she had cried over less, but her eyes remained stubbornly dry. She wasn’t even sure if she was upset. She hadn’t tried to identify the emotion that was causing the feeling in her chest, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t sadness.

She takes a deep breath and focuses on what’s happening to her body. It feels like there is something expanding in her chest, waiting to be set free. She can feel her heart thrum and vibrate like plucking a taut string. She looks down at her hands as she uncurls her fingers and stares at the crescent indents on her palms. She hadn’t noticed that her hands had been bunched into fists. _I think I’m angry,_ and it’s like the realization unlocks the full force of the emotion. She becomes aware of the tension in her shoulders, and the burn in her blood. She identifies that the thing trying to escape from her chest is the urge to scream.

“He didn’t have to go,” her voice is much smoother than she feels. “He didn’t have to go, but he decided that he wanted, no, _needed_ revenge. That this wasn’t enough for him.” _That I wasn’t enough for him._

“Rhaenys,” Jaime says to her, tentatively and cautioning. Even without elaborating, she knew Jaime was cautioning her against saying something she would regret, because, even with no one else here to hear her, she would feel bad later if she said something unfair. _And that was unfair, because Oberyn hadn’t gone with that in mind. Her uncle had gone with the intent to come back._

“Oberyn just _wanted_ more. He couldn’t-. He wasn’t satisfied with what he had. He wanted to live in a world where he could have everything he wanted, but believed that he needed to be the one to make that world happen. An idealist and a cynic in the most reckless way.” In the last letter her mother had written, Elia had said that she wanted her children to live a life where they were satisfied, but it seemed like her uncle had also needed that sentiment. _I wonder if Oberyn was like this before mother died, or if this is what he became after her death._

A cold breeze blows through the air and now she feels the pressure of tears in her eyes. She knew that her mother was always with her, but it was always easiest to feel that when she felt the warmth she associated her mother with. She couldn’t feel any of the connections she made with her dead. She was too far to hear the laughter that reminded her of Prince Lewyn, there was no music she could connect with her father, the clouds kept her from seeing any of the stars that reminded her of Ser Arthur, and the breezes she felt weren’t the quiet type that reminded her of her grandmother Rhaella but angrily howled past. She reaches into one of her pockets and pulls out the little shell the boy, _Eli, his name is Eli,_ gave her. The shell was small enough that it disappeared when she curled her fingers closed. Her reminder of Aegon was the easiest one for her to connect with, it was one she could carry with her. _Am I a bad sister for not burning with vengeance over my brother’s death, like Oberyn burned over his sister’s?_

“Rhaenys,” she turns to look at Jaime but the fabric covering his face keeps her from seeing anything but his eyes, “I’m sorry about your uncle.”

She stands from her seat and walks over to embrace Jaime. She had been so caught up in the death of her uncle she had forgotten what it meant. “I’m sorry about your brother.” Oberyn had lost the trial by combat, which meant that Tyrion Lannister was going to be executed. Jaime tightly returns the embrace.

She doesn’t know what time it is, but when she pulls away she tells Jaime, “I’m going to go to bed. I’m tired.” He nods his head and trails after her as she walks to her room. When they arrive, he wishes her a murmured goodnight before leaving her alone.

She strips down to her shift and buries herself under her blanket. Even with the acid burn of anger, she does feel tired. She isn’t foolish enough to believe that everything will be alright when she wakes up, but she does hope that she’ll feel better when she wakes up. Still, no matter how much she wants to sleep, her mind refuses to settle down. Her head is a whirlwind of anger and guilt and sadness and shame that makes her toss and turn in her bed.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she knows that’s what must have happened when she comes to awareness outside. She looks at the space around her and sees a crowd of people in a courtyard that feels vaguely familiar to her. She can hear the talk of the people around her that blends into one unintelligible mass. As her eyes sweep across the courtyard she sees a pair of men seated in front of a tall tower before she notices an absolute monster of a man. She feels her heart thump against her ribs and her blood turn to ice as she takes in the Mountain. She franticly looks around the rest of the space and sees Oberyn swagger into the arena. She feels her breath catch in her throat as she realizes that this isn’t just a dream but a _dream. I don’t want to see this._

But whatever magic that controls these visions doesn’t seem to care about her feelings, because the scene continues. Trumpets sound and the crowd quiets as a man with a tall, rainbow crown prays that the gods help with this judgement. _There are no gods here and if they are they don’t care. If the gods had cared this fight would have gone the other way._ The monster and her uncle move to face off in the center of the arena and the fight begins.

She can hear that the two are talking, but can’t make sense of the words over the sound of her blood pumping through her ears. Her uncle dances around the monster as his spear jabs at plate mail before darting back out of range. The Mountain lumbers towards the prince, but he never gets close enough. Oberyn darts forward enough to poke at the man, before retreating to do it again. There is an awful screech of metal as Oberyn’s spear scrapes against the Mountain’s chest plate and it allows her to hear what is said next. “Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne,” her uncle hissed. “You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children.”

Even if those words hadn’t become the mantra of Oberyn’s fight, they echo in her head. She hears them as Oberyn’s blows glance off legs, arms, and helm. She hears them during each close call her uncle has with the monster’s greatsword. She hears them as the crowd closes in on the fight. “You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children.” The words beat through her like a war drum and the part of her that should be afraid by how much she wants this man dead is silenced under the beat. _Gregor Clegane is not a man, but a monster._

She can hear the crowd scream as someone pays for their curiosity. The Mountain cuts a man down and the crowd pushes to leave. The arena seems to double in size as people decide that they are no longer interested in who wins. The magic of this vision keeps her from going with them.

The sun breaks through the cloud cover like a spotlight and it is the first time she notices that there is something off about the shine of Oberyn’s blade. As she realizes that there is poison on Oberyn’s blade, her uncle uses the sun and his shield to blind his opponent. The Mountain raises his arm to protect his eyes and Oberyn punishes him for it. Oberyn’s spear slips under the joint of the arm and the monster _bleeds._ The monster falls into a knee and her uncle cuts through the back of his other knee, forcing him to the floor. As the monster flops onto his back, his sword spinning away in a clatter, Oberyn spears him through the gut like a fish. The battle looked won, but she knew better.

Her uncle saunters off to pick up the greatsword. He saunters back and says, “Say her name,” as he puts his foot on the monster’s chest and raises the sword over the monster’s head. She feels nauseous from the adrenaline that surges through her body.

The monster reaches up and knocks her uncle over. The two roll around on the ground and her blood roars in her ears. She knows that this is the beginning of the end for her uncle. _His overconfidence killed him_.

“ _There is no need to look_.” The softly-spoken words cut through the roar. The feminine voice is familiar to her in a way that makes her heart _ache._

“ _Come to me_.” She can feel tears spill from her eyes as the monster says her mother’s name. “ _There is no need to look_.” She curls in on herself, pressing her eyes into her knees, when she sees the monster raise his fist over her uncle’s face, all while confessing his crimes. But, even if she isn’t looking, she is far too familiar with the crunching sound that follows to not know what has happened, the sound had been haunting her nightmares since she was three years old. She thinks the sound of Ellaria’s scream will also feature in her nightmares, but that sound is abruptly cut off, and in the silence, she hears, “ _Come to me_.”

She shoots up in her bed, wide-eyed and instantly awake. She kicks off her blanket and moves purposely through her room. She leaves drawers and cabinets open as she gets dressed. She puts on her leather riding clothes and tucks her trousers into high riding boats. On a whim, she digs through her things and produces one of her old cloaks. The one she pulls out is a dark blue one that she’s had since she lived in Myr. As she throws it over her shoulders and steps out of her room, she remembers that it is the first thing she bought herself with her own money.

She isn’t sure of the time, and she can’t even make a guess with the current cloud cover, but it must be late since the halls are empty. She runs into no one as she lightly makes her way through the castle. Her cloak whips around her body as she steps outside. Any sound she may have made is swallowed by the howling of the wind. She takes a glance up at the castle walls and she doubts the guards would even have the chance to see her with how hard the wind is trying to gut out the flames of their torches.

She steps out onto the beach and walks towards the ocean. The castle wall’s curve around a section of beach, but they could not build walls on a foundation of sand. The rising tide means she has to step into calf-high surf, but she curls around the edge of the wall, out of the castle. She walks down the line of the beach, until she is sure a guard would not be able see her, before walking inland.

Eventually, the shifting sand gives way to crunching dirt. What she is doing is dangerous. The cloud cover makes it so that it is as dark as a night with a new moon and the lack of light meant she could step into a hole and break her leg, rain meant there was a danger of flooding, predators here tended to be more active at night, and there was always the danger of scorpions in the desert. Still, something inside her keeps her moving forward, confident in where she was heading.

She feels something unfurl in her chest as a large golden eye blinks at her in the dark. She watches as Brightdawn’s slitted pupil dilates after seeing her, before climbing onto her dragon’s back. She digs in her fingers and braces her body against Brightdawn’s back. Once she’s ready, Brightdawn takes off into the air.

Unlike the first time, she doesn’t look around as Brightdawn flies. She presses her face against the scales of Brightdawn’s neck and keeps her eyes sealed shut. At some point in their flight, it begins to rain. The rain drops tap against her body like little fingers, drumming against her back and legs. Even with the added slickness of the water, she isn’t worried about losing her grip.

Brightdawn flies them out from under the rain around the time they begin to land. Their descent is slower this time and it makes it so that her stomach doesn’t revolt. But even with their slower descent, it feels like it takes them too long to land. She cracks open her eyes and sees a striped, rock wall that rises above their heads. Brightdawn lands on an islet in the middle of a river and she slides off her dragon’s back. She gets a better look at their surrounding and realizes that the rock walls wrap around them, suggesting that they are in a canyon. She turns around and slumps, stunned, against Brightdawn’s side as she catches sight of the view behind them.

A bit behind them, is a landscape of flowers. What should probably be brown dirt, is covered in blue, purple, orange, yellow, pink, and green flowers. The flowers sway slightly, and it looks like they are dancing in the breeze. She takes a deep bracing breath and she can smell the sweet, slightly herbal smell of the flowers. She feels a smile pull at the corners of her mouth, until she realizes that she can see the flowers because the light of dawn is illuminating them. As the implications of the time of day hit her, _they couldn’t fly back in broad daylight,_ she feels a slight panic come over her.

“Hello there!” She jolts to her feet and whips around to the side. Across the water looking at her, _waving_ at her, is a young woman with light brown hair, a pale freckled face, and a broad smile. “I take it he’s yours?”


	44. Jaime

He wakes up because there is yowling at his door. In a speed becoming of a knight, he rolls out of bed and is at the door in a handful of steps. When he opens the door, Balerion has the audacity to look him in the eye and wail at him. “I think you have the wrong door.” He bends down to pick up Balerion, but, before he can get a grip on the cat, the hell beast races away from him. The cat runs halfway down the hall and has the gall to look back at him and meow, as though telling him to follow. Knowing that the cat won’t just let him go back to sleep, he follows the dreadful thing.

Balerion leads him into the next hall, right to Rhaenys’s door. The cat smacks his paw against the closed door, but he still knocks before scooping up the demon and opening the door.

When he opens the door, he finds the room, not in disarray, but in a state of untidiness. Balerion is unsettlingly quiet as he walks over to the rumpled sheets and finds that Rhaenys is not there. He presses his hand to the empty space and finds that the bed is just barely warm. He walks over to the open drawers and cabinets to take in their states. He finds that clothes have been taken out of them, but that they haven’t been tossed and that the things missing aren’t highly valuable items. Overall, the room looks like someone hastily and carelessly got ready; which wouldn’t be particularly concerning or suspicious if it weren’t for the late, almost early, hour.

He steps out of Rhaenys’s bedroom and immediately heads for this wing’s courtyard. He ends up half jogging towards the space with Balerion lightly bouncing in his grip, since the cat digs his claws into his clothes to keep from being put down. When they arrive outside, they are greeted by the pleasant smell of wet earth. The stone underfoot is slick and puddled with rain. He thoroughly looks over the courtyard, but it’s obvious from the moment he arrives that Rhaenys isn’t here.

From there he, much more urgently, heads towards the main courtyard and checks there. Finding that empty, completely empty since it was too early and too dark for the children to be out, he checks all the terraces. Finding those empty, he begins to go through all the rooms in the west wing individually. It feels like a fruitless endeavor, he _knows_ it is a fruitless endeavor, but he feels the need to do everything he can before he accepts the obvious. It is only after he has painstakingly searched every empty room on this side of the castle, that he heads back to his room to get dressed, Balerion only allows himself to be put down long enough for him to get dressed, and then he goes to find Ashara.

Yesterday, after Rhaenys had gone to bed, he had been informed that they would be traveling back to Sunspear, but he hadn’t bothered waking her up to tell her since they had always been in the practice of keeping their things ready for travel, just in case they ever needed to leave somewhere quickly. He finds Ashara right as she is coming out of her room, likely seeing to any final preparations she has to make for the travel.

“She’s gone.” He had thought he had been more composed, but it appeared he wasn’t. As Ashara blinks owlishly at him, he repeats in a hiss, “ _She’s_ gone.”

As his words sink in, she grabs on to his sleeve. “We have to tell Doran.” She pulls him through the halls at a brisk pace. By this point, the first light of dawn has begun to peak over the horizon. The light illuminates the soft pink marble of the Water Gardens and it should feel peaceful, but his body refuses to calm.

The light also highlights the darkness of Ashara’s clothes. Every item she is wearing is predominately black in color; the blouse she is wearing features gold embroidery and lace sleeves that cover the length of her arms, black trousers with pleats around the waist that sit loose around her thighs and taper around her ankles, and her hair is bound up and hidden behind a black, lace veil that hangs halfway down her back. She is the picture of a widow in mourning and it reminds him that she _is_ a widow in mourning.

She pulls him into the room Doran is in, right as the man begins to eat. As Ashara bullies him into a chair, he watches as the prince continues to eat. There is something mindless about the action, less like the prince wants to eat and more like the man is going through the motions of eating. In his lap, Balerion readjusts so that he is fully pressed against his stomach and he absently rubs his palm against the cat’s side.

“Doran,” Ashara’s voice is soft, “Mara is gone.”

Doran stops eating and looks up at them. The more he looks at the man the more he realizes how _tired_ the prince looks. “She’s gone?”

“I’ve looked all through the castle. She is not here.”

“That will delay the things I had planned for once we arrived at Sunspear.”

Ashara’s swift grip on his shoulder and him biting his tongue keeps him from responding. A part of him wants to snap back at the man, but he knows that now isn’t the time. _Besides, it was my responsibility to watch over her. I’m the one that lost her._

“Are you not concerned?”

The prince looks at Ashara. “She has had wings for months now. I am surprised this has not happened before and, while it is unfortunate that this has happened now, I am not concerned. The girl has good sense. I trust her to take care of herself and to come back.” Doran looks back down at his food. “We must still go south to Sunspear. The most we can do for her is make sure Sunspear remains steady and primed for her return.”

The most obnoxious thing about what the prince is saying, is the fact that he is right. There is nothing they can do for Rhaenys until she comes back. He stands and bows for the prince. With a responding nod from Prince Doran, he leaves the room to gather his things. He keeps Balerion cradled against his chest up until they are mounting their horses to leave and, even then, he adjusts Balerion’s riding satchel so that the cat is still pressed against his side. When Morgan arrives, the young man sends him a concerned look but doesn’t say anything, so he assumes that his mother told him what happened.

While he, Ashara, and Morgan are riding horses back to Sunspear; Doran’s maester is riding back on a donkey, the prince himself is in a litter, and the prince’s guard walks around them. This travel arrangement means that their trip back to Sunspear is much slower than their initial trip to the Water Gardens. He and Morgan ride slightly behind and flanking Ashara’s horse. Her pale white horse makes her choice of clothing stand out and he has to wonder if the woman is hot. He also begins to wonder how purposeful her choice in horse had been.

He’s turning the thought over in his head, when a rider appears over a dune. Nymeria Sand has such a distinctive look that he identifies her even before her guard appears behind her, in a much larger version of the ‘v’ he and Morgan are making. The Sand Snake nods at Ashara, before settling next to Doran’s litter. The woman loudly greats her uncle and everyone present is forced to listen to one, loudly spoken, side of their conversation.

He hears Nymeria say that his father plans on giving Dorne Gregor Clegane’s head, but also imply that Oberyn was the one who killed the Mountain since the prince poisoned the man in their fight. _I wonder whose decision it was for Clegane to represent the crown. Joffrey was king and, in terms of tradition, a Kingsguard should have represented him. Father would not have gone against that tradition. Which means Cersei made that choice; that Cersei wanted to see Tyrion dead so much, that she took her best chance to win the trail._

He hears Nymeria demand permission to take a sister north so that she can kill his father, his sister, his nephew, and even him. His father for Elia, Tommen for Oberyn, and the Lannister twins for Elia’s children. _She seems rather confident that she would find me. Would she still attempt to kill me if she knew that I was riding feet from her? Is she so hells-bent on vengeance that she would still find an excuse to kill me even if she knew I squirreled Rhaenys away? She also had no issue threatening Tommen, citing his bastard status for it, but she chose to threaten me instead of Myrcella, who she has access to. Is that choice because of logic or bravado?_

The Sand Snake leaves with the threat that she and her sisters will not wait two decades for their vengeance. The woman kicks up sand as she races away from them towards Sunspear. No one says anything as she leaves. He isn’t surprised by the guard not speaking, their purpose is to guard, not offer opinions, but he is surprised that Doran and Ashara don’t speak. Ashara remains straight-backed and silent in her saddle and the prince does not call her over.

Hours later, they reach the gates of Sunspear. It’s seems like Nymeria informed the guards of their travel, because the gates are already open when they arrive. He thinks the guards may not have been the only people she told, because the people of Sunspear are out and stirring on the streets. Areo Hotah loudly demands that people make way for the prince and the people answer.

A man demands Dorne raise its spears. A woman cries that the prince is dead. Another man directly calls out Doran to call the spears. For a moment, there is an unintelligible mass of voice as people yell and scream and cry at the prince. As they pass through the second gate, the crowd has found their voice. They chant, “To spear! Vengeance for the Viper! War!” With their chant, the crowd begins to close in around the prince’s guard. The tension of the moment sends goose pricks down his spine. It was obvious to anyone watching that the crowd was on the cusp of rioting.

“Enough!” A part of him is ashamed to admit that he hadn’t noticed Ashara standing up in her stirrups. Her voice forces a hush through the crowd as all eyes turn to look at her. “You are not alone in your grief! And not in your rage! Rest assured that our spears are sharp and that there _will_ be action. But first our prince must come _home._ To be put to rest and mourned in the way he _deserves!_ We ask that you give us the time to give our prince the peace he could not find in life, before we pursue the _justice_ he burned for!”

There is a moment of silence as the crowd takes in Ashara’s speech; as they decided if her words are enough to soothe them. Ashara remains standing in her stirrups and she could be confused for a statue dressed in black if it weren’t for the heaving of her chest. There are quiet mutterings from the crowd and he prepares to force her back in her saddle and away from the crowd, be the people begin to part. The people stay on the streets, quiet and obviously unsatisfied, but they let them through unharried. He can feel the phantom touch of their eyes even after the portcullis of the castle walls close behind them.

Once in the castle walls, they are greeted by another crowd, though this one is of the Dornish court. This crowd is led by Princess Arianne, but his eyes focus on Myrcella and her Kingsguard. He sizes up the Kingsguard and he wonders if the man is up to the task of protecting the girl. _Even if Doran and the Sand Snakes mean her no harm, there is no accounting for everyone else. For those who see her only as a Lannister and not anything else._

When the prince leaves for the throne room. He trails behind Ashara as she accepts the condolences of the Dornish court. He pays little attention as people come up to embrace her or offer kind words or whatever else people say when speaking to recent widows. He does notice a few people approach Morgan, but whatever words are said to the man are too quiet for him to even attempt to hear. Since no one is interested in him, he removes Balerion from his satchel and holds the lazy cat in the crook of his arm. As he and Morgan follow Ashara into the castle, Balerion presses his nose into the bend of his elbow.

She walks them to the study he and Rhaenys first met her in. The space looks much like it always did, except all the books, scrolls, and loose papers are nowhere to be seen. He falls into a chair as Ashara collapses into the chair behind her desk. Balerion wiggles out of his lap to sulk on the floor. Morgan stands at his mother’s side, his hand pressed against her shoulder, but the room remains quiet.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but their quiet is interrupted by a knock at the door. Before anyone has the chance to respond, the door is opened and Prince Doran rolls in. He should be jumping to his feet and giving the prince a greeting befitting the man’s station, but he doesn’t get up. There is something foreboding simmering in the air.

“My prince, what can we do for you?” Ashara’s voice is faint and subdued.

The prince looks at her for a long moment. “I am here to ask Morgan Sand to surrender himself into Areo’s custody. To be confined atop the Spear Tower.”

“What?” The exhaustion present in Ashara is immediately gone. “Why?”

“Areo will be taking all the Sand Snakes into custody-“

“Morgan is not a Sand Snake,” Ashara’s voice is sharp and controlled. “He does not share their need for revenge.” He is in no way surprised by how quickly Ashara puts together why the Sand Snakes would be imprisoned.

“No, but all of Dorne knows that that Morgan is the closest Oberyn ever came to having a son, that he treated your boy like he was his own. There will be others who will try to use him for their own purposes.”

Ashara opens her mouth to reply, but she stops when Morgan squeezes her shoulder. “It is alright, mama. Doran is right to be cautious.” The young man leans forward to embrace his mother, before walking over to the prince and the captain of the guard. Doran looks grateful and Areo looks as uncomfortable as he feels, having been an unwilling spectator to this event. He turns back to look at Ashara after the trio leaves.

He finds her with her palms pressed against her eyes. She scrubs her hands down her face and looks at him with red eyes. “How are you feeling,” her voice wavers and he can tell that she is on the cusp of tears.

She is his friend and he sees no reason to lie to her, so he tells her the truth. “I feel like every decision I’ve made was wrong.” _I should have brought Rhaenys to Dorne sooner. I should have given her more time to bond with her uncle. I should have gone to King’s Landing to defend my brother. I shouldn’t have told Oberyn what I did about the Sack. I shouldn’t have left Rhaenys alone. I shouldn’t have left Rhaenys alone while she was grieving._ It’s hard to wrestle what he feels like he should have done, with the knowledge that he doesn’t regret what he has done. “How do you feel?”

“I feel unmoored.” Ashara turns her head down to look at her hands. He stands from his chair as she hiccups out a sob. He rounds the desk as she curls into herself to cry. Once he’s by her side, she lets herself be coaxed into a hug. The embrace is eerily similar to the one he and Rhaenys shared when Elia died, except this time the girl he was entrusted to protect is nowhere to be found.

He can feel Ashara’s words as she breathes them into his neck. “I feel like almost everything I’ve loved has been destined to suffer and die.” He briefly thinks of his brother, and then tries to think of nothing at all.


	45. Rhaenys

She stares at the woman speaking to her. She doesn’t know what to say. It feels wrong to admit to a _stranger_ that Brightdawn is hers, but she’s also aware that she wouldn’t be too convincing if she tried to pretend that she isn’t connected to the dragon she _rode in on_ , and she has no idea how to even attempt to breach the gap between those two extremes. Which means that she’s stuck staring at this woman, with her mouth agape, as her brain refuses to chain together words into an appropriate sentence. Though, when she does realize that her mouth is open, she snaps it shut with an audible click.

The stranger doesn’t seem to mind that she didn’t respond, because she breezily continues, “Are you planning on staying there all day? He usually doesn’t go back into the sky until dusk, and that seems like an awful long time to sit on that crowded little islet.”

The stranger is right, with Brightdawn curling up to sleep, the islet is crowded and, with nothing else available, she would be stuck with nothing to do but sit on damp earth. She takes stock of the stranger, who doesn’t look very threatening, and says, “No, I don’t plan on staying here all day.”

The stranger holds an open hand out towards her. “Make sure to watch your step. The water is deeper than it looks.” She looks down at the water and sees her own reflection looking back, with windblown and wild hair. The reflectiveness of the water means she has no idea how deep the water could be, so she loops her cloak over her arm and tentatively inches her foot into the water.

Her first step into the water doesn’t even reach over the arch of her foot. Her second step in reaches up to her ankle. Her next step leaves her in calf deep water and on the step after that she needs to spread her arms out for balance because the water reaches up to above her knee. This deep in, she can feel the water swirl and push at her legs, much stronger here than it had been at the bank.

When she’s about two thirds of the way across, her foot slides across the smooth stones of the riverbed and she feels herself rapidly tilting to the side. She braces herself for a dip into the water, when there is some splashing across from her and then a strong grip on her upper arm. She starts to reassess her stance on this stranger being threatening, as they hold steady during her flailing, not even struggling to keep their balance while also hauling her up.

Once she gets her feet back under her, she turns to look at the stranger. She finds herself face to face with large hazel eyes flecked with green and gold. She feels heat rush to her face and quietly murmurs, “Thank you.” The stranger smiles, but doesn’t say anything as she helps her the rest of the way across.

They reach the bank without, further, incident and she feels embarrassment curl in her gut. “Thank you, again, for helping me across,” she nervously picks at her wet trousers. She feels off balance with how this whole circumstance has caught her off guard.

“Well,” the young woman chirps, “I’m glad to help.” The stranger lets go of her arm and takes a half step away. The stranger doesn’t seem to mind that her trousers are also completely wet, but she does seem to care about the large satchel hanging over her shoulder. There is a slight clacking sound as the woman looks through the bag, before she turns back to look at her. “What should I call you?”

“Ah-,” her mind immediately blanks right after she realizes that she can’t tell this woman either of the names she uses. She desperately racks her brain for a name she can use. “Ayda,” is the name she settles on. It is a name she remembers from her studies in Myr, from an old Rhoynar story about a musician whose musical talent allowed her to travel unaccosted up and down the river Rhoyne.

“Ayda?” She bobs her head in a nod. “My name is Neria.” Neria stomps her feet and the water seems to slough off her legs. Neria is by no means dry, but she is no longer drenched like she is. Neria looks her over and says, “If you’d like, we can go get some dry clothes for you to change into.”

She looks at Neria and finds the woman politely looking back. She gets the feeling that she could say no and that the woman would leave her alone, that this stranger isn’t looking to force anything on her. “I would appreciate that.” Neria grins at her and reaches out to take her hand. Even though she knows that Neria is strong enough to haul her around, the grip on her hand is soft enough that she could break it if she wanted to.

Neria walks her away from the river towards the canyon wall. She walks them straight towards, what looks like, a crack in the canyon. “We’ll have to walk through the tunnels. The space isn’t too tight, but make sure to tell me if you are feeling overwhelmed.” Neria waits until she nods her understanding, before walking her into the crack.

The sunlight shining above them, gives the tunnel a dream-like quality. The muted light makes the browns, reds, and pinks of the canyon wall look soft. They walk one behind the other, even though the space is mostly large enough for them to walk side by side, because the warped and wavy walls of the canyon close and open around them. “Where are we,” her voice is hushed because it feels inappropriate to speak loudly in such a serene place.

“We are on a minor river that feeds into the Greenblood.” The stone under their feet has been worn smooth and she wonders if that is natural or if it’s been made that way. “It doesn’t even have a name because it is pretty remote.”

“But you live here?”

Neria effortlessly leads her through the winding path. “A whole colony of us live here. The remoteness suits us. And just because it is difficult to get down here, that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

They reach a point where they need to sidle through a tight spot in the path and she can hear Neria’s bag clack. “What’s in the bag?”

“They are the bones from the dragon’s islet.”

She blinks at the back of Neria’s head. “Why do you take his bones?”

“A couple of reasons. The dragon is pretty thorough in his eating, but we are down river from that islet and it is dangerous to have partially eaten corpses rotting in the water. I collect the bones because they are a useful resource and Ras thinks it’s wasteful to just move them when I can bring them back to our colony.”

“And the dragon just lets you take his bones?”

“Well, I don’t take them while he’s there. But sometimes the dragon has seen me near the islet and doesn’t seem to mind. I wouldn’t call the creature tame or gentle, I have been cleaning up his meals for a while, but I also wouldn’t call the creature aggressive or malicious.” Neria turns to look at her. “We’re pretty close to the colony. You should hear them any moment now.” _Hear them?_

Neria walks them out of the canyon tunnels towards some obviously man-made steps. The walk down the steps leaves them back alongside the river bank. She can hear the gurgle of water across stone, but she doesn’t think that is what Neria was talking about. Back in the open air, she can see that the sun is higher in the sky and it dries her trousers against her legs. Now that they are close to their destination, Neria rushes them through the last leg of their journey.

Neria is right, she does hear the colony before she sees it. The sound is distinctly human, but it takes her a moment to place what the voices are doing that makes them sound like one. She quickly realizes that these people are speaking in a language she doesn’t understand, but it takes her a bit longer to realize that the melodic harmony is people singing. The sound bounces off the canyon walls and seems to wrap around them like a hug.

They keep walking and reach a place where the canyon opens up and, to the left of the river, there is a large, enclosed swath of flat land where the colony sits. It is a small settlement, with a handful of huts and buildings scattered around the land. This little settlement is much tidier than any city she has been in and the smell that wafts towards them is clean, albeit a bit smoky and fishy. There are people bustling about and most of them seem to be singing as they go through their duties. She spies women with baskets, men hauling stones, young women carrying fabrics, young men climbing up buildings to mend roofs, and surprisingly few children racing about. People look at her curiously as she and Neria pass by, but none of them stop what they are doing to interact with them.

As Neria pulls her through the settlement, a thought occurs to her. “How do you leave here?”

Neria looks up at the sky before turning to her with a grin. “Do you want to see? I’m sure Ras won’t mind waiting.” She gives a hesitant nod before following Neria towards the wall of the canyon. Neria pulls her into a growing crowd of people gathering in front of the rock face. She expects to see a crack in the wall, like the one Neria had led her through, but when they arrive she only sees a sheer rock wall.

She hears people whisper among each other and notices that, even though they had been singing in a different language, they are now speaking in the Common Tongue. The whispering comes to a gradual end as a pair of individuals approach this gathering, wearing heavy looking boots and packs with straps that loop around their arms and around their ribs. The people part to let them through, but also reach out to greet and embrace the pair.

Eventually, the pair reach the rock face and check themselves over. The crowd has formed a semi-circle around this section of wall and she can feel a very subtle tension present in the air. She’s starting to wonder what this has to do with leaving, as one of the two people reaches up and pulls themselves up. She watches with bated breath as the pair slowly climb up the rock face. From this distance, she can’t even see whatever foot or hand holds the pair is using and she feels anxiousness boil in her as the pair gets closer to the top. After what feels like an eternity, the pair reach the top and the crowd erupts in cheers and applause.

She barely has the time to recover from that anxiety, as Neria pulls her through the crowd towards a simple, one-story building near the center of the settlement. Neria knocks on the closed door of the building and waits until a voice gives them permission before ushering her in.

It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the new lighting, but when it does she can see that they are in some sort of workroom. There is a large table in the center of the room and all along the wall there are cabinets and drawers. Sitting in a chair faced towards the door, is a man with broad shoulders and black hair streaked with grey. The man looks up from the leather project in his hands and looks at her appraisingly.

“I’ve brought a guest.”

“I can see that.” His voice is soft and his words rounded by his heavy Dornish accent. “My name is Rashad, but most just refer to me as Ras. I am the head of this colony.”

“My name is Ayda.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ayda.” Ras tilts his head to the side. “Neria, would you be so kind as to get our guest some dry clothing?”

Neria rocks up onto the balls of her feet and gives a jaunty salute. “I’m on it.” After listening to Ras’s thick Dornish accent, she notices Neria’s lack of accent. Neria reaches up to squeeze her arm and give her a grin, before leaving the workroom.

As the door shuts, she’s left alone with this stranger. Ras looks down at the item in his hand, which she thinks may be a half-finished shoe, and gestures with the other. “Please, have a seat.” She perches herself in a chair across from the man and watches him. “I’m sure you have many questions.”

“Is that truly the only way to leave?” It probably isn’t the first question to ask, but it’s the one she can’t get out of her head.

“There are many ways to leave. And for you there is even one more.” She makes sure she doesn’t react to his words. There is nothing overtly threatening about his words, but it is clear to her that he knows how she got here. “But it is a tradition among us that the first time someone leaves they leave by climbing out of the canyon.”

“Don’t people fall?”

“Not as many as you’d think.”

There is a moment of silence as they look at each other. Ras seems to be waiting for her to say something else and she trying to wrangle with what she is thinking. As she looks at the man across from her, she gets the feeling that this man is a smart man who knows that she is more than she seems. “Don’t you want to know who I am?”

“You’ll find that our colony is not like other places. Our place here is a place of growth and learning where we get to decide who we want to be. Whether that is someone we were or someone we want to become.” Ras’s dark eyes look directly into hers and she feels like he is looking straight at her soul. “It does not matter to me who you are. Because, if you are here, then you are an Orphan, just like the rest of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I highly suggest looking up Antelope Canyon if you want to see what I think this place looks like.


	46. Jon

He woke up tired. It felt like every morning since he had been named Lord Commander he woke up tired. There was so much that needed his attention. He needed to talk to the commanders of Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower before they left, he needed to speak with Emmett about staying here in Castle Black, he needed to check in with the Builders to see how the rebuilding was progressing, he needed to talk to Bowen to see how the Stewards were doing, he needed to speak with Maester Aemon and Sam for research on the Others, he needed to speak with Ulmer about training everyone in how to use a longbow, and it felt like every time he woke up a hundred other little tasks arose that needed his attention. Back when he had been the Old Bear’s steward, it never looked like the man had to deal with so many things, but maybe it was just that he hadn’t been paying attention. _Though, the Old Bear never had to deal with Stannis Baratheon on top of his duties as Lord Commander._

Every morning, King Stannis called him up to the Lord Commander’s Tower to berate him. He wasn’t doing enough to find the rest of the wildlings, that the Night’s Watch had no need of the gift so he should hand it over, that the Night’s Watch couldn’t defend the Wall so he should give up castles to the king’s men, that he wasn’t helping his _one true king_ enough, and that all the northern lords did was deny him, and that one was especially frustrating because there was nothing he could do about that, _not anymore_.

He swings his legs over the side of his bed and sits for a moment. He clenches and unclenches his fingers as he looks out the window. He’s woken up earlier than usual, so it means he doesn’t have to do anything right away.

He stretches his leg out in front of him and digs his fingers into the knotted muscle. Maester Aemon had told him that his leg had healed well, especially considering the circumstances, but had also suggested that he massage the leg to combat tension. As he goes through the motion, his fingers brush over the indent of the scar. It is the only physical reminder he has of Ygritte. It feels right to him that he’ll have to always carry her with him.

As he finishes tending to his leg and thinks about how he needs to have another meeting with Maester Aemon. The maester had given him a quick rundown on things that needed to be immediately tended to, but he still needed to speak with the man on more in depth matters. Even though he knew that Maester Aemon respected his authority and that he wouldn’t have to deal with some of the issues he dealt with when dealing with other people, he wasn’t looking forward to this meeting since he knew Maester Aemon would ask him to deal with difficult matters. Still, when Dolorous Edd comes to ask him what he’d like for breakfast, he asks the man to inform the maester that they will be meeting later. _I don’t have the luxury of avoiding the things I don’t want to do._

After finishing his breakfast, he heads out of the armory to attend to his duties. He tracks down Othell so that the man can give him a report of the reconstruction of the great stair. The man informs him that reconstruction is going well, but also implies that the men are unhappy with the hours he has them working. If circumstances were different, he might have considered giving them a break, but without the great stair the only way up the Wall was the winch and Stannis was pressuring him to give up men to repair the Nightfort. He tells the man that they will rest once the stair is finished and leaves to look for Bowen.

He finds Bowen right as the man was finishing taking inventory. He listens as the man gives a doleful report on their stores. Bowen advises that they need to do more to preserve their stores or they won’t have enough to last the winter. He tells the man that they will do what they can, but he doesn’t think there is much that can be done while Stannis and his men stay at Castle Black. _Stannis helped us win the battle, but he and his men are bleeding us dry._

After that he goes to observe how the longbow training is going, _well but it could be better._ He goes to train with Iron Emmett, _the man holds his own well especially considering he is facing someone wielding Valyrian steel._ He speaks with anyone who calls for his attention, _though they don’t have much important to say it is good to build report._ He goes up the Wall to speak with the rangers keeping watch, _they inform him that they may have seen some stirring in the forest but nothing truly of note._ By the time he heads down to his meeting with Maester Aemon, the sky is dark.

He heads down to the library, it is much easier for him to go meet the maester than to have the maester meet him. The library is surprisingly warm considering it is underground. Torches have been lit all across the room, but it is not enough to truly light up the space. He finds Maester Aemon drinking from a steaming cup as Clydas brings over maps and supplies. “Hello Maester Aemon.”

“Hello Lord Commander.” The maester puts his drink down and looks in his direction. Clydas shuffles around putting things in the maester’s reach and murmuring to the man where these items were. “Have a seat. There is much that must be done.”

“Thank you for meeting me at such a late hour.” He settles into the chair across from the maester and looks over the things set out. He can see the maps of the land beyond the Wall that he asked for, old Ranger reports on the Free Folk, fresh parchment, numerous quills, and sealing wax.

“It is no issue. As you grow older you find yourself sleeping less and less.” The maester looks in the vague direction of Clydas. “You may go, Clydas.” Before the Clydas gets the chance to say anything, Maester Aemon continues, “I’m sure the Lord Commander and I can manage.”

Clydas looks over at him and he nods his head in confirmation. After receiving his approval, Clydas excuses himself and leaves them alone. While he doesn’t think Clydas is the best the Night’s Watch has to offer, he does appreciate that the man respects him and his authority.

Once Clydas is gone, he asks the maester, “How is the research going?”

“As to be expected. There are many books in this library and, with Clydas needing to assist me, Sam is the only one in a position to read them.” The maester feels around for a quill and prepares to write. “He is working as fast as he can, but it will still take time.”

“I understand.” He looks down at the maps spread out before him and asks, “Shall we begin?”

The maester nods his head and begins to write letter after letter announcing to the rest of Westeros that the Night’s Watch has chosen a new Lord Commander. While Maester Aemon does that, he begins the grueling process of trying to figure out where Tormund and the rest of the wildings could have fled to. He pours over the maps and tries to use the old ranger reports, what he knows about the Free Folk, the little the captured wildlings have said, and the information the Night’s Watch gathered about the abandoned towns to try to figure out where they could have gone; all while stopping every few minutes to sign a letter to send to some distant House that would never think twice about what they received.

He quickly sifts through report after report and the more he reads the more he realizes that the Night’s Watch has never understood the Free Folk. How much they misunderstood depended on the First Ranger at the time. Some First Rangers, like his uncle, wrote their reports without judgement; they wrote what they observed exactly as they observed it and expressed no opinions on what they saw and how they felt about it. In other reports, he had to pick through the First Ranger’s opinions to find what he wanted; hidden behind complaints about disorganized villages and unpleasing smells and unsightly traditions, he would find passing mentions of how big these villages were and how many they could fit. _If I hadn’t done what the Halfhand asked of me, would I be more like my uncle or these other rangers? If I had not lived among them, if I had not been told to observe and understand them, would I care about them being misunderstood?_

As he makes sense of all the information, he crosses out locations he doesn’t think the wildlings will flee to. He also tries to identify places they _could_ go and map out the most likely place they _would_ go, but even with all this information there is little for him to draw conclusions on. If he uses too much information, he ends up with dozens of places the wildlings could have fled to; but if he narrows the information too much, he ends up with no locations the wildlings could have gone to. No combination of the information he has, gives him a viable path to move forward with. The land beyond the Wall is too vast and he does not know the Free Folk well enough. As he leans back in his chair to rub his eyes he thinks, _I may not know them well enough but surely someone from those who were captured should._

The only person who came to mind was Val. She was the only person of ‘status’ that Stannis had captured. Most of Mance’s generals had been killed or had fled. There was the Lord of Bones, but he didn’t trust Rattleshirt not to lead them into a trap and he didn’t think Rattleshirt would actually know where the rest could have fled to; that man thought too highly of himself to care about other people. There was also Mance, but a man guaranteed to burn had no reason to help them, _a man who knows his son will burn after him has even less reason to help. If I could keep Dalla’s son from the flames, would Val help us?_

“My lord?” He hums so that Maester Aemon knows he has his attention. “Have you considered what you want to send to the Crown?”

The only reason he doesn’t scoff is because he doesn’t have the energy to do so. “What is there to say? The Crown has never helped us before and that was before we helped a rival king.”

“Stannis aided us. We did not aid his rebellion.” The maester prepares his quill and says, “Clarifying the situation is better than letting them come to their own, uninformed, conclusions.”

He fights the sigh trying to escape his throat. “I trust your judgement, Maester Aemon. Write what you think will best aid us and I will sign it in the morning.” He watches as the maester carefully pens whatever paper shield he thinks could help them.

As he watches the man work a thought occurs to him. _Melisandre plans to burn Dalla’s son because of the king’s blood in the boy. Maester Aemon is a Targaryen, the last in a line of kings, and Stannis knows this. Even if he was never king his blood could be called king’s blood. If she were to ask him, would Stannis give this old man to the fire?_ He clenches his jaw as his mind begins to race. _It doesn’t matter what Stannis would do, I won’t give him the chance._

“Maester Aemon. If I were to ask you to do so, would you leave Castle Black?”

The maester finishes penning the letter and puts it aside to dry. “If you were to ask, I might. If you were to command, I would have no choice but to obey.” He doesn’t like the distinction, it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. “May I ask why?”

“Lady Melisandre has made it clear that she wants king’s blood for her rituals. The only people here with king’s blood are Mance, his son, and _you._ ” He takes a moment to gather his thoughts and continues, “It is wrong to burn a man alive. Even worse to burn an old man and a child alive. Mance is the king’s hostage and there is nothing I can do for him, but you and Dalla’s son are my responsibility. I would like to do what I can to spare you and him from the flame.”

He sees the faint curl of a smile come over the maester’s face. The two of them spend a long time going back and forth on a plan that could do what he wants without getting him into too much trouble with Stannis. Eventually, they decide that the best pretext on sending anyone away would be to send Sam down south to become a maester and then sending Aemon, Gilly, and her ‘son’ down with him. It would mean he would have to ask something terrible of Gilly and he can only hope that the woman will trust him enough to leave her son behind. _There will be no pleasing her, but maybe Sam will be pleased to leave this place. Oldtown will have all the books he could dream of and it won’t be so cold down there._

With that planning finished, he offers to take the maester back to his quarters. He can feel it in his bones that the hour is late and there is nothing more that can be done right now. He holds his arm out for the maester and walks him up to his room.

The air outside is cold and the moon is high in the sky. He can see men making the rounds of their watch and the swirl of their black cloaks as the wind picks up. _All of this is my responsibility. Every man here, every stone, every hostage is mine to take care of. I cannot protect all of them, but I must do right by them. I must do everything I can to preserve them._

He walks the maester into his quarters and prepares to leave. Before he can step away to old man tightens his grip on his arm and says to him. “Allow me to give my lord one last piece of counsel,” before he gets the chance to respond the only man continues, “the same counsel that I once gave my brother when we parted for the last time. He was three-and-thirty when the Great Council chose him to mount the Iron Throne. A man grown with sons of his own, yet in some ways still a boy. Egg had an innocence to him, a sweetness we all loved. ‘Kill the boy within you,’ I told him the day I took ship for the Wall. ‘It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg. Kill the boy and let the man be born.’” The old man felt his face. “You are half the age that Egg was, and your own burden is a crueler one, I fear. You will have little joy of your command, but I think you have the strength in you to do the things that must be done. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born.”


	47. Rhaenys

She doesn’t leave this little nameless colony, not because she can’t but because she feels like it is not time to. Ras offers to have some of his own escort her back to the Water Gardens, but she finds herself hesitating. After spending the day wandering through the settlement, Ras asks Neria to lead her back to the dragon’s islet. The path that had seemed so direct on their walk back, revealed itself to be a maze that she had no chance of navigating on her own. When they arrive, Brightdawn pushes his head against her torso, but she doesn’t clamber onto his back. When Brightdawn crones about his need to eat, she sends him off without her. When Neria walks her back to the settlement, Ras nods his head to her in understanding.

Having chosen to stay here, Ras makes sure she is provided all that she needs. She is provided with clothes, from loose linens to sturdy leathers waterproofed with beeswax. She is given a room, a small thing that is little more than a bed and a chest, but it is dry and comfortable. She is given food; not just a bowl filled to the brim, but also a place to sit in the communal eating space. In exchange for all the things she is given, Ras puts her to work.

With no clear place for her, she bounces between all the places that need assistance. She starts in the kitchen to help with Oberyn’s mourning feast; she learns all about spices and how to use kitchen knives. After that feast, which had included bonfires and songs and celebration until dawn, she is moved to assist the seamstresses. She prepares cushions and bobbins for lace, rolls up bolts of fabrics for future sale, and drapes fabric for the clothes these women do make. After that she’s moved to the river to help the fishers, where she learns how to set hooks and butcher fish. After that she’s moved into the smokehouse where she learns how to butcher larger animals and how to preserve meats. After that she’s moved into the smithy where she sharpens blades and learns about Rhoynar metalworking. After that she’s moved to work in the floating gardens where she harvests food and learns about farming. After that she’s moved to assist the tutors for the children, where she helps the children learn to read and write. After that she’s moved to assist the healers, where she learns about herbs and medicine and prevention. After that she’s moved to help the builders, where she’s mostly there for delicate work. After that she’s moved to the stores tucked into the canyon walls, where she takes inventory and checks over supplies. And, after that, she is moved alongside Ras to help cobble together shoes.

Long before this moment, where she is sitting next to Ras trying to shape this piece of leather into the proper shape, she had come to the realization that the people she was being asked to assist didn’t actually need her assistance. She turns to look at Ras and says to him, “You didn’t assign me to those tasks because they needed extra hands.”

“No, I did not.” Ras puts aside his project to look at her. “Can you tell me why I assigned you to all those tasks?”

She thinks about her answer, even though she doesn’t really have to. She thinks about the moment when she had the realization, sitting in the forge laughing at a story told by the forge master and noticing that she hadn’t been doing much work. She thinks about how the cooks would seek her out to give her food during the day because they knew she was too polite to ask for some on her own. She thinks of being taught the songs of the Rhoynar to help pass the time. She thinks about how Neria would ask her how her day was as she lead her back towards her dragon. She thinks about how she’s had someone by her side her whole life, but also that she’s never felt a sense of community like the one she feels here. “You did it so that I would get to know them.”

Ras smiles at her. “I did.” Ras stands from his chair and gestures for her to follow him. As they walk out of the workroom he tells her, “Every life has value, not just because of the work they do but in our inherent interconnectedness. But it can be hard to remember that the food you are eating or the building you are sleeping in or the clothes you are wearing came from the hands of a skilled worker. And then it can be even harder to remember that your life and what you do is connected to the life of that worker. Lords in their castles tend to think of their smallfolk as cattle, a resource to be tended to and slaughtered at their convenience, but all smallfolk are people with loved ones and dreams. People who are valuable by the simple act of being and not because of what they can do.”

“And you thought it important to teach me this lesson?”

“I did. Though, it is a lesson taught to all who find their way here, not something I thought you, in particular, needed. This exercise is also one of the easiest way to preserve our traditions as Rhoynar, because our culture is nothing without its people.”

She thinks about what Ras said and asks, “One of?”

“The other point of that exercise is to help me understand what work you would be best suited for.” Ras smiles enigmatically at her, while completely ignoring her question. “I believe it is time to properly settle you into some work.”

Ras walks her through the settlement. People wave and smile at them as they walk. The kitchen has already begun the afternoon cook and she can smell the fragrant scents of the meal. Towards the edge of the settlement, she can hear that the builders are singing a song. She still hasn’t learned the language of the Rhoynar, but she can recognize that the song is one to help the men haul. Ras walks her to a crack in the canyon wall that leads into tunnels.

These tunnels are larger than the ones Neria led her though when she first arrived. These do not warp and fluctuate like those either, these tunnels bare the tell-tale mark of having been carved and made bigger by tools. She has only been in these tunnels a few times. The settlement’s stores were down this way since the underground, stone room kept cooler than the spaces above ground. And while she had been down here to go to the stores, she has never wandered through the other tunnels branching off that path.

Ras walks her through the pale brown corridors that get paler and paler until the walls look like they are made of white limestone. There are mirrors placed in corners to light the tunnels with diffused sunlight, but she also sees little lantern stations with the supplies to start a fire. The cool, crisp air makes the hairs on the back of her neck rise and her arms break into goose pricks. It feels like there is something in the air here, like there is energy emanating from the walls and setting her nerves alight.

Ras walks her to a storage room full of paper, inkpots, and quills. “In your time here, I have learned that you are an educated and lettered woman,” he says as he shuffles things around. “I have also learned that you are a quick study,” he holds a paper out for her. “Can you tell me what this is?”

She takes the paper from his hand. On it are letters and symbols and instructions. She reads that what looks like quill tests are actually a sign of the missive’s urgency, that certain misspelling are meant to imply different words, and that specific symbols are shorthand for certain phrases. She looks back up at Ras with a furrowed brow. “It is a cipher.”

“It is.” Ras sets an inkpot, a quill, and a scroll in front of her. He then reaches into one of his pockets and produces a dull, metal message tube. “I ask that you use that cipher to read this message.”

She takes and pops open the message tube. Inside is an unsealed note that appears to be a simple notice from a bakery about how last month’s sales have gone for them. She immediately notices that there is only one quill test mark in the corner of the note, meaning that whatever hidden message in the note is urgent. She looks back over at Ras before turning to interpret the message.

Interpreting the message doesn’t take as long as she feared it might. While there seems to be many rules to the cipher, once she learns the pattern of the rules the work goes quickly. As she finishes inking the last word, she absorbs what she’s just written. “It says that Lord Tywin is dead. Seemingly killed by his disappeared son.”

Ras takes her inked scroll from her to check her work. The man nods at her work before setting it aside to dry. “It does say that.”

Ras turns away from her to examine an empty wall. She looks back over at the scroll and her mind begins to race. _I’ve seen this style of scroll before, with this type of information. It looks like the ones Ashara kept in her study. It reads like the ones Ashara kept in her study._ “You’re the source of the information. The informants keeping Sunspear informed on the intimate details of the rest of Westeros.”

“We are.” Before she gets to say anything else, Ras sticks his hand into, what looks like, a hole in the wall. The wall turns out to be a door and slides away from them. The door opens into a large room also lit with diffused sunlight. The walls are lined with shelves and those shelves are covered in scrolls. There are two large tables covered in more writing supplies. Carefully placed and covered lanterns can be seen all throughout the room. Ras walks into the room.

When he doesn’t say anything else, she asks, “How?”

“I told you that lords tend to dismiss their smallfolk. While it is a dangerous quality for the smallfolk at large, it is advantageous for us.”

He didn’t answer her question but she works off what he said to fill in the dots. “It’s through merchants and the like,” she says, her mind racing. “You spoke of specialized workers; of fishermen and seamstresses and builders.” Her eyes widen as she looks at Ras. “Specialized workers who you train here.”

“A quick study and observant. A good set of traits for an informant, if circumstances were different. But circumstances are what they are.” Ras widely gestures towards the room around them. “I believe that, for the rest of your stay here, you would do best in serving this room. Your tasks would be deciphering more messages, transcribing those notes onto relevant scrolls, organizing the information here, pulling information our prince asks of us, and working with our aviary.”

“The aviary?” Ras ushers her out of the room and shows her how to open the door before closing it behind them.

“The aviary is how we receive these messages.” Ras turns to quickly pen a note before leading her out of the tunnel.

“What does this have to do with Rhoynar traditions?” She too flustered to ask anything else. She’s learned too many important things too quickly and is still trying to process that. The revelation that the people she had been bonding with where, for all intents and purposes, spies would have shocked her more, if it weren’t for the revelation that preceded it. Lord Tywin Lannister was dead, at the hands of his youngest son. _The man who is responsible for the murder of my family is dead, killed by his own kin._ A small part of her feels a vicious sort of contentment, but a larger part of her feels somber. _But what does it matter now. His death may have pleased Oberyn, but my uncle is gone now. And Tywin never faced any repercussions for his sins, so what does it matter?_

“The Rhoynar as a whole have always had a great appreciation for specialized work,” Ras starts; either not noticing or ignoring her inner conflict. “It was a point of pride to be proficient enough in your craft to be sent to another city, either to represent your native city or the Rhoynar as a whole. It is a proud Rhoynar tradition to be trained in your craft so that you may be sent somewhere else to display your mastery of your craft.

“It was the tradition of the Rhoynar who established this settlement to train individuals to act as informants for their prince or princess. To train individuals who were masters in their craft so that they may be sent anywhere and everywhere. A seamstress can be privy to the intimate details of private events, a forge master can be privy to secret vendettas, a baker can be privy to the woes of the common folk, a medic can be privy to the hidden ailments of a town, and an attendant can be privy to all their lord’s mumbled complaints because their lord forgets that their attendant is a person.”

In the time, it takes for Ras to explain this to her, they arrive at the aviary. In the aviary, some in cages some walking around freely, are crows and jays and jackdaws. “Hello Drusilla,” Ras says to the woman removing a message tube from a crow’s leg. She turns and smiles at them with closed lips, before tilting her head inquisitively. “If you could, please, send this to Sunspear as quickly as you can,” and Ras hands over the note he wrote.

Drusilla bobs her head in a nod. Then, Drusilla makes a few quick gestures with her fingers. She recognizes, from her time assisting the tutors, that this is a form of non-verbal communication, but the motions are too quick for her to understand any of it.

Ras puts his hand on her shoulder and says, “This is Ayda, our newest guest. I have assigned her to work in the vault, so you can take non-urgent messages directly to her. I would also like to ask that you teach her how to tend to the birds, so that she may assist you.”

Drusilla nods her understanding before turning fully towards her. This time, Drusilla slowly and purposefully moves her fingers, so that she can understand what Drusilla is trying to tell her. She can’t help the smile that comes over her lips and repeats, “I am excited to work with you, too.”


	48. Sansa

The first night after Marillion’s _passing_ she goes to sleep in disbelief. Every moment she spends preparing to go to bed, she expects to hear Marillion’s crooning voice drifting down from his sky cell. She believes that Petyr is telling her the truth about Marillion’s death, she wants to believe that the man is dead, but a part of her still fears that her sleep will be interrupted. She sleeps fitfully that night, fully expecting to be woken up by song in the middle of the night.

But when she wakes up it is morning, not the middle of the night. The woman attending her, _Gretchel if I remember correctly,_ gets up as she hears her moving. Gretchel is an old woman with a lined face and the thin limbs common of older people, but she is still spry and attentive. Gretchel huddles her up in a fur-lined bedrobe that is a bit too warm for right now; though, Gretchel assures her that it will be getting cold quickly.

She washes her face and putters around the room, trying to wake up. As she does so, Gretchel pulls out her clothing asking her what fits well and what could use some altering. Petyr had gifted her Lady Lysa’s clothing and, while a few dresses fit her, many of those dresses needed to be altered so that they could fit her; since they were already going to be altering some things, Gretchel thought it best to just alter everything that needed to be altered.

As they finish pulling out the things that need fixing, Maddy and Mela arrive to help. Maddy and Gretchel whirl around her: helping her get dressed, pinning the clothing, helping her out of the clothes so that it could be sewn, before starting the cycle over. All while that is happening, Mela stands to the side informing her on house affairs. With Lady Lysa’s death, the responsibilities as lady of the house fell to her. Mela informs her about the stores of the castle and asks her to prepare a menu for the week, she informs her about the little requests the staff had made and asks for her suggestions, Mela tells her what lessons Lord Robert has lined up for the week, and other things of the like.

There is something peaceful about the mundaneness of this moment. It had been so long since she didn’t feel like danger was waiting for her in every corner. After Nestor Royce and his companions had left, the castle had fallen back to its usual functioning. Even with the knowledge that other Lords in the Vale wanted to see Petyr gone, there was little they could do except wait for Petyr to solve the problem. While she knew that the peace here was uneasy, it was hard not to be lulled into the comfort of routine.

She feels something ache in her chest as Maddy and Gretchel dress her in a red and blue dress. The dress is one of Lady Lysa’s older dresses, from back when she was Lysa Tully and not Lysa Arryn. Gretchel sweeps her hair over her shoulder to look at the arm sleeves. She vaguely hears Gretchel say that they can take some fabric out of the seam so that the sleeve better fits the length of her arm, but she is focused on her hair. Her hair has been brown for weeks, but she still has moments where she sees her own hair and thinks that it is someone else’s.

Remembering that her hair is brown and stepping out of this Tully colored dress leaves her feeling sad. _I wonder when I will be able to be Sansa Stark again._ She wonders if she will ever be able to wear her natural hair color again. If she would ever hear her name again. If she would ever be able to go home, to Winterfell with its snow and its godswood. If she will ever be able to speak again with someone who knew her before all this, before she was a hostage for people who only cared about her to use her to threaten the people she loved.

But as much as she wanted to be Sansa Stark again, to live the life she once lived, she wasn’t sure if there was anything left to go back to. Her parents were dead, unjustly murdered in ways that were completely unlawful; her brothers were dead, Robb was killed by a man who had sworn himself to him and the little ones were killed by someone they trusted; and all the servants she knew growing up were gone, the guard who went with them to King’s Landing were killed by Lannisters and those who stayed home were killed by the Ironborn. She thinks of the people whose fates she never learned; she thinks of Arya who she never saw again after their fight and of Jeyne who she had last seen terrified and taken away from her. She thinks of Winterfell; sieged and left to ruin.

And then she thinks outside of the Winterfell she once knew. She thinks of her mother’s brother, who was held hostage by the people who killed Robb and her mother. She thinks of her mother’s uncle, who was forced to sit in a sieged Riverrun. She thinks of her uncle Benjen, who was much too far to ever be of help to her. _I may never be Sansa Stark again._ She thinks of Tyrion, who had tried to be nice to her, and how he had been executed for Joffrey’s death. _I may never be a Stark again, but I also won’t be a Lannister._

With the fittings done, she gets dressed in a green wool dress. It is plain, in the way all the dresses she has as Alayne were, but tomorrow, or the day after, she would have a wealth of dresses. Dresses made with silk and velvet and lace like the ones she had been given in King’s Landing. A dark thought flitters through her head, but she pushes it away.

Now that she is dressed, Maddy and Mela disperse to attend to their other duties. Gretchel asks if she is ready to break her fast and then walks off to the kitchen when she says she is. She walks off at a much more sedate pace, not towards the kitchen but towards the dining hall near it.

Her steps echo loudly in the quiet of the halls. She has never experienced a castle as quiet as this one. Winterfell had always been abuzz with the noise of the servants and the guard, happily chatting about whatever they wanted, and King’s Landing had always been loud from the noise of visiting lords and singers and knights, they had to speak loudly to cover their whispered schemes. The Eyrie is empty, with only its mostly elderly staff and minimal guard, and quiet, because too much noise was bad for Lord Robert’s health. The emptiness and the quiet made her feel lonely.

She had once hoped that Lady Lysa would send her to the Gates of the Moon, that her aunt could either be convinced or that she could be banished. It was said that Nestor Royce’s daughter, Myranda, kept the castle well-staffed and lively, _it would be hard to feel lonely among so many people._ But she had given up all hope of that now. Lord Robert had attached himself to her, after the death of his mother, and Petyr would not senselessly send her away, _even if there was something for him to gain, he wants me by his side too much to consider it._

She breaks her fast on oats, fruit, and milk. She is informed that Lord Robert has not woken up and broken his fast yet. She tells them to let the boy sleep, agitating Lord Robert seemed to make it more likely that the boy would have a fit, and a fit usually meant the end of the day for the boy.

When she had arrived Lady Lysa had spoken of marrying her to Lord Robert. It was hard to imagine herself married to the boy when he looked even younger than Rickon had. There was also no ignoring how sick Lord Robert was, someday she wondered if the boy would even see the end of the week. Though, any talk of marriage with Lord Robert had ended once Lady Lysa died. If Petyr planned on seeing that plan through he had made no mention of it to her.

She hadn’t seen much of Petyr since Nestor Royce left. The Lord Protector of the Vale had been holed up in his solar, taking meals in that room and working through the night. She had also seen Maester Colemon moving from the solar to the rookery with letters in hand. Nestor Royce had warned that a large part of the Vale was not pleased with Petyr and she was sure Petyr was overworking himself to prepare for that.

The rest of the day passes, mostly, uneventfully. Lord Robert wakes up and demands her presence for his meal. She deals with matters of the castle while Lord Robert is occupied with his lessons. At around midday she eats with Lord Robert and spends the rest of the day idling until she goes to bed.

That night she sleeps uneasily, not just because a part of her expects Marillion to sing, but also because she has an odd dream. She dreams of being alone in a snow-covered wood; surrounded by dark, ominous trees and silvery eyes staring out at her from the darkness. And while a part of her is afraid by the space around her, a larger part of her is desperately looking for something. She overturns piles of leaves, crawls into burrows, and digs into the dirt looking for something. She looks and looks and looks, until she grows tired and collapses into the earth. She lays there and weeps, covered in muck and with twigs tangled in her hair.

Her eyes snap open in the darkness of her room. She lays in her bed feeling like her heart is going to leap out of her chest. Unbidden, she remembers a story Old Nan had once told her. A story of human-beasts shifters, who wore beautiful pelts that allowed them to become the animal their pelt was from. A melancholy story about how hunters would steal the pelt from these shifters, forcing them to do everything they could do to get their pelt back because without their pelt they would die. She falls back asleep, trying to ignore the feeling that she is missing something.


	49. Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter contains suicidal ideation and self-loathing. The suicidal ideation is passive, but the self-loathing is pervasive through the whole chapter and I want you to take care of yourselves. There is a summary in the bottom author’s notes that covers the content of this chapter.

He had hoped that he would have gotten used to the rocking of the ship by now, but it seemed that he was never going to get what he wanted. He had learned enough to be able to keep his balance and keep from bouncing around his cabin like a rattle caught in a child’s hand, but it didn’t keep his stomach from revolting every time the ship rocked from one side to the other. It also didn’t help that the food on this ship had been some of the worst he had ever eaten; he wasn’t sure if the crew was trying to poison him or if Varys had just put him in the worst ship he could muster. The food was made worse by the fact that it was one of the only things he could fill his days with; that and wine.

The food may have been atrocious but the wine was bearable, even if he couldn’t taste it well enough to identify what it was. And it seemed the wine was in good supply because the cabin boy, who never spoke to him, always brought him more when he brought in his paltry meal and a bucket to clean all that he had retched. With all the alone time he had here, he had come up with some theories as the why the boy didn’t talk to him; the most likely reason was that the boy had been told not to, the second most likely was that the boy didn’t understand the Common Tongue, it could also be that the boy wasn’t paid enough to deal with drunkards, or that Varys had cut the boy’s tongue, _or simply that the boy is afraid of grotesque monsters._

He had too much time alone with his own mind. The captain refused to let him abovedecks and he wasn’t allowed anywhere that wasn’t his barebones room, that only had a bed and not much else. There were no books for him to read. No people for him to talk to. He couldn’t see the lightening and darkening of the sky. He didn’t even have the privilege of sleep; though, if he could sleep it would probably only be nightmares. All he had was his thoughts and his wine. _It’s not all that different from the black cells. Where day and night and weeks meant nothing. Where you have to wonder if you are dead already._

He takes a long drink of his wine and thinks back to the last cup of wine he drank. It has been a Redwyne wine on the night that Prince Oberyn convinced him to ask for a trail by combat, _the prince had called the wine red water and grape juice_. Except that wasn’t right, his last cup of wine had been Dornish; to fortify himself as Oberyn had blatantly spoken of treason in the Red Keep. He could barely remember it. In the aftermath, that day had become a blur.

In the black cells, he had turned those two days over and over in his mind. If only he hadn’t let that snake whisper in his ear. If only he hadn’t played so directly into his sister’s hands. If only had had taken the offer his father had offered, if only he had _believed_ in his uncle’s offer. If only he hadn’t brought Shae to King’s Landing. _If only I hadn’t been born._ But all the ‘if only’s didn’t matter because what had happened had happened. It still didn’t keep him from turning those two days over like it was a puzzle he could solve. _It was a devil’s choice. It was either submit to the corrupt hands of justice or put my life in a vengeful stranger’s hands._

No one had told him where they were going. He had once heard a passing mention of the Free Cities, but not much past that. He would much rather go to Dorne. Oberyn had planted the seed of making Myrcella queen and he couldn’t help but wonder. The girl was older and Dorne was unbloodied, something could come of it. _Father is dead and he was the bigger threat compared to Cersei._ _And even if nothing comes from crowning the girl, at least I would be in a land familiar to me._ But there was no guarantee that Doran Martell would accept this plan, or that Doran would accept him. _I am the main reason his brother is dead. But I am also the reason his sister’s killers are dead._

He killed his father. Shot him through with a crossbow. He had killed him because it had been his life or his father’s. _It wouldn’t have been if I hadn’t gone up that ladder._ He had killed him because his father had angered him. _I told him not to call Tysha a whore._

Thinking of Tysha pained him, which was surprising considering he had begun to think that he wouldn’t be able to feel again. _If only I could be so lucky._ During one, very short, moment in his life, what had happened with Tysha had been a point of pride. It had been three short years since his brother had disappeared and he had been down in Lannisport celebrating his birthday. When he had interceded on this girl’s behalf, he had done it because he thought that’s what his brother would have done. Jaime would have done it with a sword and his strength, but he had done it with his intellect, by using his status and his words to make those men think better of their actions.

But all that pride died when his father punished her for his _audacity_. When his father managed to convince him that Tysha was a whore and ruin the good thing he had found in his life. It wasn’t until he was sitting in the black cells, reliving his life in the way men say they do before their deaths, that he began to question if what his father told him was true. It was as he stared his father down, as he saw his father for the hypocrite and the liar that he truly was, that he realized that Tysha had truly loved him. That he realized that he was the only reason she had suffered. _Both my wives have been doomed to suffering. I can only hope that Sansa has avoided Tysha’s fate._ “Where do whores go,” he asks his wineskin. “Certainly not the same place heiresses go.”

He takes a large swallow. He darkly wonders if Tysha is dead. If she goes where all the dead go. _Except for me. I won’t see the seven heavens. I will go to that special place in the seven hells where all kinslayers go._

He thinks back to the series of events that led to him facing down his father in a privy with a crossbow. He thinks about Shae telling him that his father scared her, _he scared me too._ He thinks about those guards taking bets on how he would face his death; on whether he would face it bravely or whether he would face it begging for forgiveness. He thinks about how that series of events was sealed once he climbed up that ladder. _It is said that Maegor’s secret tunnels spanned the whole castle. Varys could have led me down a different path, he could have lied. But instead he walked me down that path and told me who was at the top of it. Varys dangled the carrot and I killed my father._

He thinks about the conversation he had with Varys when the man let him out of his cell. “Why help me now,” he had asked.

“There is nothing I could have done before. My duty is to this city and making an enemy of your sister would make that infinitely more difficult.”

“This will make her your enemy.”

Varys had smiled. “Only if she were to know, but she won’t.”

“Why help me?”

“Because you are my friend,” the man had said; even then, the words had felt like a lie, even more so in retrospect, “and your mind is capable of great things. It would be a waste for you to lose it.” He should have known better. The only friend he had had in his life had been his brother. _But is Jaime my friend?_

His brother had written to him, to _only_ him to let him know that he was alive. _But it had only been because he needed me, because he needed a favor._ His brother had been in Westeros, for who knows how long, and had never contacted him before that. And ignoring the two decades where having his brother in his life would have _bettered_ it, three years ago he had _needed_ Jaime. All of Westeros had known about his capture and, if Jaime had been in Westeros, there was no way he wouldn’t have known.

And then there was after the letter. If Jaime had not been in Westeros before that, then he had definitely been in Westeros after. There was no way he couldn’t have known what their sister had accused him of. There was no way his brother didn’t know the consequences of kingslaying, _it was probably the reason he left_. There was no way his brother didn’t know that he needed him. The only option was that Jaime had chosen not to come for him. _In his letter, Jaime had mentioned that there was something that he needed to do._ _What duty could matter more than his brother’s life?_

He takes another long draught of his wine. _I have not drunk enough if I can still think._ Something is starting to make his stomach roil. He wasn’t sure if it was the jerky rocking of the ship or the wine curling in his empty stomach. He forces his rising bile back down with another gulp of wine. _Maybe it would have been kinder for Varys to leave me to die._ He spends the rest of who knows how long drinking, until he falls into a drunken stupor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion is locked in the cabin of a ship after having escaped King’s Landing with the help of Varys. Tyrion has been isolated and unable to sleep all throughout his stay on the ship, and has taken to drinking to cope. While Varys is sending Tyrion to the Free Cities in Essos, Tyrion considers going to Dorne instead, but wonders if Doran would accept him. Then Tyrion thinks of his first wife Tysha and wonders about the fates of both his wives. Tyrion comes to believe that Varys used him to kill Tywin. He then questions if Jaime ever truly cared for him. The chapter ends with Tyrion drinking himself into a stupor.


End file.
